


thorned roses and wilted violets

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: "the wilting of one too many violets leads to the growth of the more robust rose"London, 1956.Through cracks in the cobble, grow the blooms of love forbidden.- updated sundays and wednesdays at 5pm gmt
Comments: 46
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to gracie, my very own violet🌸 and the reason i believe in everything good with the world <3

"Morning," 

"Don't take the mick," 

The open patio doors give entry to a cool July breeze, swishing Barbara's skirt around her shins. She rolls her eyes, placing a steaming mug of caramel coloured liquid in front of her husband. Her nose fills with musky aftershave, almost too much of it, mixing testingly with soap and sleep. 

"I was only making light," she says, taking a seat in the armchair across from Tom, "I know you hate the overnight shift," 

"Absolutely despise it," he says, pulling a little bottle from his pocket, depositing it into the mug before him, “I’m certain I’m the only man in that place that has any idea what he's doing,” 

Barbara sighs as she watches him add the liquor to his coffee. He picks up on it immediately. 

“Simply a brightener. There’s no need to be that way about it,” 

“You’re a _police officer_ , Tom. You know they won’t approve,” her voice is quiet but determined. 

“They won’t know. Besides, I’m the one making the money for this house, so you get that opinion the day I’m not,” he looks up to where she is standing, leaning against the kitchen counter. He slips a cigarette between dry lips and lights it with rehearsed ease. 

“I could get a job,” replies Barbara, watching the cloud of smoke as it trails upwards. 

Tom scoffs. 

“I’d love to see it,” he says, tone dry and mocking. Barbara simply sighs, turning to attend to the dishes piled in the sink. She’s used to Tom’s rough comments by now, but she supposes it’s a rare instance in which he is entirely right. In another life, minus the teenage sweetheart and the elope which lead her to London, she’d have studied and followed her passion. Though that’s not a train of thought for tonight. Not forever, when she considers it. She sighs again, rinsing bubbles off of a plate in an absentminded manner. 

“I could go into nursing,” she says softly, so softly she’s surprised he hears it. 

“Why would you want to do that?” 

“It’s a career," 

The clock in the hall announces the arrival of eight o'clock and she hears Tom huff from the parlour. He stands, fixing his coat, hat tucked tight under his arm. Barbara turns as he appears behind her. 

“Will I have breakfast in the morning or is that another thing I’ll be expected to do myself?” 

Barbara’s gaze hits the floor. 

“I’ll sort it for you. What do you want?” 

“Surprise me,” he says dryly, tucking two fingers underneath her chin and lifting her face. He greets her lips with his own, stubble acting as sandpaper against her own soft skin, before turning and heading out of the front door. It closes with a dramatic slam, perhaps the wind, perhaps it was him. 

Barbara steadies herself for a moment before she smooths her skirt, hands brushing delicately over the gentle, floral-patterned fabric. Bending to check her lipstick in the metallic shell of the kettle, she decides it needs a touchup, applying her favoured pearl pink shade, smoothing it out between thin lips. The shiny black tube is slipped into the inner pocket of her handbag before she slings it over her arm, straightening her posture as she prepares to leave. The conclusion is that the July air doesn’t demand a coat, simply slipping a thin cardigan over her shoulders as she steps out onto the still crowded street. 

  
  


The atmosphere behind the doors of _The Rose and Thorns_ i s bustling and claustrophobic as Barbara steps inside. The wooden and glass doors close behind her with a dull thud. She takes a breath, clouded by stale beer and strange aftershave. Barbara flinches a little as she hears a drunken whistle, holding her bag tighter to her side. 

“Giz a kiss, sweetheart,” 

Barbara watches as the man gets a light clip round the ear from a woman behind the bar, dressed in a shirt and slacks, dark brown hair curled and pinned back from her face. 

“Pack it in, Henry,” she addresses one of them as she places the pint onto the bar, “I’d hate to get your misses down here,” 

The man grumbles as he grips his pint glass again, returning his attention to the group of men he is seated with. 

"These aren't your ends, are they chick?" 

Barbara shakes her head as the woman leans across the bar on her forearms. 

"I'm here to speak with Patsy," she replies, finding difficulty in meeting the woman's eyes. The brunette nods, tapping a finger against the bar. 

"Round this way," she says. Barbara nods, obliging. 

A locked door leads to a staircase, which leads to another hidden bar area. Shabbier in appearance, though clearly loved, the scent of cigarettes and the mixing aroma of lingering perfumes fills Barbara's nose. The concealed nature of the place is clear, the only lighting being provided by lamps that line the walls, in which Barbara is wilfully ignoring the clear dents of perhaps just a mere altercation. The atmosphere is homely, comforting, soft and inviting unlike the chaos upstairs. 

Seated on a bar stool is a tall woman, with deep ginger hair hanging in soft and neat curls just past her shoulders, a cigarette hanging neatly between slender fingers, of which bright, glossy nails hold a stark contrast to porcelain skin. The woman smiles as she sees Barbara, placing her cigarette into the ashtray before her. 

“Barbara, I assume?” she asks in a deep, rich voice, smooth like silk. Barbara nods, returning the woman’s smile, “Patience Mount, though everyone calls me Patsy,” 

She holds out a manicured hand, shaking Barbara’s softly as she takes it. 

“I’d better head back up before they hold a coup for free bitter,” says the woman who greeted Barbara. 

“Do close the door, Valerie,” says Patsy, “they don’t half know how to cause a racket,” 

Patsy waits for the door to close, waiting for a moment's silence. Three certain knocks ring around the room and Patsy’s demeanour visibly softens. Some sort of code, Barbara assumes. 

“Take a seat, my love, we’ll get all the awkward formalities out of the way,” Patsy says, picking her cigarette back up and taking a slow, steady drag. 

“I thought you said this was a society,” says Barbara, referencing the room that holds only the pair. Patsy smiles, ashing her cigarette between expert fingertips. 

“It is, though we can’t have all our eggs in one basket,” she says with a very exact depth, “precautions must be taken, hence why our first encounter is exactly that. Just us,” 

Barbara nods. 

“I see,” she says. 

“Valerie keeps this room as a sort of safe haven, for us. It's often much more lively,” she holds out a gilded cigarette tin, to which Barbara politely shakes her head, “the type of women you’ll meet may surprise you, Barbara, but we exist everywhere,” 

“Of course I understand that.” 

“There are the daughters and wives of bankers, doctors, surgeons, even those high up in the authorities,” 

Barbara draws in a breath. 

“My husband is an Inspector with the Metropolitan,” the reply is quiet, though Patsy simply offers a smile, “if all goes in his favour, he’s to become a Chief Inspector by the fall,” 

Another smile. 

“It’s no problem at all who your husband is,” she pauses, reaching to stub out her cigarette, “what about you? Who is Barbara?” 

Barbara hesitates, lost for words. As hard as she thinks, nothing comes to mind, nothing at all. The question is one she can ask as much as Patsy can. 

"There's not much to tell, really," she looks at her hands which lie folded in her lap, "I moved here from Liverpool when I was eighteen. A whirlwind romance, really," 

Barbara looks up, meeting kind eyes. Patsy nods, filled to the brim with compassion. 

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a Scouser,” she replies with a grin. 

“Tom- he said if I wanted to fit in here and be taken seriously, the accent had to go,” she shrugs, though Patsy tilts her head in disbelief, “I slip up sometimes, mainly if I’m tired or I’ve had one too many, but otherwise you’d never know,” 

“I love a different accent, all you get around here is plain old RP” she replies, “though it’s a big thing to do for love, isn’t it? Remove a part of yourself?” 

Barbara shrugs. 

“If you could call it that,” 

“A part of yourself?” 

“Love,” 

Patsy lets out a little sigh. 

“I see. I suppose that’s why you’re here,” 

She nods, letting out a little smile. 

"Well, it's wonderful to meet you properly, Barbara," 

Barbara smiles, bright and genuine, a safe feeling washing over her body. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” Barbara’s subtle awkwardness begins to subside in the presence of the redhead. Never a social butterfly, the leap to her own reality is a large one, especially given the stakes to do with her own husband. Nevertheless, she sits in the warmth of the room, Patsy’s company pleasant and inviting. 

“I suppose you’d best get going, if there’s somebody missing you,” says Patsy after a moment. 

“He’s working. They’re expecting night shifts in order for his big promotion,” 

“I see,” there’s a definite twinkle in her eye, “you’re a free bird then?” 

“In some ways,” sighs Barbara, “though if there’s no breakfast on the table when he gets home I’ll be going to hell in a handcart,” 

Barbara’s sudden sarcastic nature takes Patsy by surprise, though she simply smiles. The redhead stands, announcing her true height, which only adds to her presence in the room. She takes her coat from its place on the bar, a plaid blazer in muted blues. Barbara rises from her seat, smoothing creases from her skirt as she follows Patsy to the door. Boney knuckles rap against the door in a rhythmic fashion, followed by silence, or rather as close to silence as the din allows. The door swings open, Val on the other side. 

“It’s died down a bit now, it’s Thursday night after all,” she says, waiting for the pair to exit. Barbara watches as Val locks the door again, the heavy padlock hitting solid wood with a dull thud. 

“Thank you, Valerie,” Patsy says, pulling her coat over her shoulders, moving red curls away from under the fabric. 

“How many more times? It’s Val,” Val heads back behind the bar, whipping the cloth from over her shoulder. 

“It’s Valerie. Nicknames aren’t proper etiquette,” 

“Whatever you say, Patience,” 

“I’m the exception, my parents were simply pretentious,” she turns to Barbara with a warm smile, extending an arm in the direction of the pub’s doors, “shall we?” 

  
  


Barbara finds herself at the kitchen table the next morning, head full of sleep and wandering thoughts. She checks her watch, awaiting Tom’s return home. A fry-up, freshly cooked, shimmering with grease, sits warming under the grill- he always complains at lukewarm breakfast. The rattle of keys in the front door stirs Barbara back into reality as she takes her mug in both hands, placing it on the counter. 

“Busy shift?” 

Tom nods, burdened with fatigue. He takes his place at the kitchen table, polished black hat placed on the seat beside him. Barbara places the hot plate in front of him, returning to the kitchen for a steaming mug of too-strong coffee. Tom reaches for his pocket. 

“There’s one in there,” says Barbara, a little stronger. 

“You are good to me,” he replies, taking an eager swig. Barbara returns to the seat opposite him, cradling her own steaming tea between both hands. 

“Anything exciting?” 

“A stack of wrongly filed paperwork,” Tom replies, punctuating his sentence with eager bites of egg and beans, ”though we did receive a nice little tip-off,” 

“For what? More unruly meths drinkers?” Barbara asks, looking over at him over the rim of her mug. Tom shakes his head. 

“A supposed homo den,” 

Barbara nods, though she doesn’t find comfort in his choice words. 

“Oh,” 

“Whether or not it’s a reliable tip is another matter,” he says, the matter of fact tone acting as nails down a chalkboard for Barbara, “a Gentleman's Convenience on Whitley, supposedly a big haunt for them,” 

“What do you even do with that information?” 

“Stake it out with a pretty bobby,” he shrugs a little, “have ourselves a nice little sting,” 

“Is that _moral_ ? To fool people in that way?” Barbara tilts her head as she looks at him. 

“What they’re doing is not only immoral but illegal, Barbara,” he replies, making sure his eyes pierce into hers. 

“I don’t see _why_ it is,” she says, punctuating her sentence with another sip of coffee, "in either respect,” 

“These are the laws, I’m just here to uphold them,” he reaches for his knife, stabbing the yolk of his egg, “though I understand completely. It’s disgusting,” 

Barbara stays silent. 

“The world’s going positively insane. Men with men, women with women, it’s all wrong,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat as he finishes his plate. 

“I don’t see the problem, so long as they don’t hurt anyone,” her reply is timid, but she means it wholeheartedly. 

“They’re criminals. It’s not legal and it’s not right,” 

Barbara sighs as she leans to gather his plate. 

She’ll leave it there, for her own sanity. 

“Oh, before I forget,” 

Barbara turns back to face him. 

“Don’t make any plans for Saturday. Commissioner Franklin is holding his annual garden affair,” 

“Will you be attending, then?” 

“Yes. We will,” 

“We?” 

“I can’t turn up alone , Barbara,” 

“Of course not. I’ll have to iron your suit. The one you keep for best,” 

“I’ve been pulling strings and rubbing elbows for weeks,” he stands, coming to face Barbara only a foot or so away, “this is the home stretch now, Barbara,” 

She places her arms around him, her hands resting in the small of his back. His hands find themselves at her waist, drawing her close. 

“You’ve been working awfully hard, Tom,” 

“It’ll all pay off, I promise it will,” he plants a quick kiss to her lips, “so no showing me up on Saturday.” 

She sighs as he pulls away, heading out into the hall and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! welcome to the humble beginnings of the underground lesbian society that is the wilted violets! this au is months in the works and i hope you love it as much as i do!
> 
> p.s tom is very ooc throughout this, sorry if that ruins anything :( it will all become clear soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> barbara makes a not so fleeting acquaintance.

Barbara swallows the ill feeling in her chest as they pull up in the driveway. 

“Tonight is very important for me, Barbara,” says Tom, resting a hand on her thigh. She feels her chest tighten a little.

“I know,” she says, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“The commissioner is bound to talk once there’s a few in him,” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, really,” he says, straightening his bow tie, “just that I can probably get friendly with him,” 

“For your promotion?”

“Of course for my promotion, what else, Barbara?”

Barbara shrugs a little, fiddling with the beaded chain of her handbag. 

“No silent treatment tonight, please,” says Tom, quietly, yet with uneasy undertones, “be sociable. Don’t show me up,”

“I don’t know anyone, Tom,” she says, somewhat pleadingly, “these are your co-workers,"

Tom scoffs.

"For heaven's sake, you still have to be social. I won't have you making a bad impression,"

Barbara simply nods. Any protest is futile.

The commissioner's house only serves to boast his wealth, the garden adding to the impressive nature of it all. It is lined with flower beds, adorned in every colour, perfect trimmed hedges creating a scenic pathway. At the top, before the glass doors framed in glass beads, a large patio, where a large group of people in suits and gowns are congregating, pacified with glasses of Babycham and expensive Scottish whiskies. As they enter, accepting champagne from a man in a meticulously starched tux, another man approaches, one Barbara recognises. 

"Commissioner! You've certainly outdone yourself," Tom says, greeting the man with a firm handshake.

"We're in informal circumstances, please, call me John," the man replies, smiling, "Beatrix, Ella, come and meet one of my best," 

Barbara looks up from the floor, seeing two women shuffle across from their separate conversations. The first links onto his arm, an older woman, adorned in pearls, a mink shawl draped effortlessly around her shoulders. 

The second is much younger, gracefully appearing next to the Commissioner, all blonde curls and red lipstick. Barbara can't help but watch as she takes a sip of the presumably strong glass of who knows what, using her thumb to rub away the scarlet left on the rim. She meets Barbara's eyes, a bright pearly smile adorning red lips, warm and genuine. There is a sparkle in deep blue eyes that makes Barbara's chest tighten, though not in the awkward way it has been throughout the night so far. 

"This is my wife, Ella, and my youngest, Beatrix," 

Beatrix rolls her eyes as her father introduces her, exchanging a smirk with Barbara.

"You know I-"

"You have a son as well, don't you Sir?" asks Tom, with either no regard or no realisation for Beatrix.

"I do, although I imagine he's tied up somewhere with his fiancee," he takes a sip of the whiskey in his hand, "haven't found anyone for my Beatrix, yet," 

"Perhaps there's simply no man good enough," Barbara interjects.

"Or foolish enough," replies John, shrugging as he smiles at Tom and Tom only. 

"Now, that's not fair, John," Ella smiles, twirling the dregs of her champagne in its glass, "we paired Clarence off, after all,"

"Perhaps your Mrs was right then, Tom," he looks between the women at his sides, "shall we find you something stronger? We've got the most exquisite barrel-aged whiskeys, straight from the Highlands," 

Tom nods, following the Commissioner like a lost dog.

Beatrix looks up, meeting Barbara's eyes once again. 

"No offer of fancy whiskey for me, I see," Beatrix giggles, earning a smile from Barbara.

"You know what your father thinks of you and your drink, Trixie," says Ella, raising a brow, "come along now. More people to greet," 

The ever growing coolness of the breeze, which has a nip despite the mid-July setting, naturally sends the party inside. The Commissioners dining room is barely full as the group talk and laugh, whiskey flowing still. Barbara finds herself drawn outside, her lungs desperate for air. 

She sits on the wall, legs dangling absentmindedly as she revels in the warm breeze. Her chest still holds the same tightness, though it softens as her heart begins to settle, the pounding in her head fading. 

"I don't suppose you have a lighter on you, do you?" 

Barbara turns, seeing the small blonde girl from earlier, her face illuminated in the soft garden lights. She smiles, a packet of cigarettes held so Barbara can see. 

"No, I'm afraid not. I don't smoke, sorry," Barbara smiles.

"That's alright. Neither do I, if you ask my father," the girl giggles, taking a place next to Barbara on the wall, "he'd also tell you my name is Beatrix. I much prefer Trixie," 

"It's nice to meet you, Trixie," says Barbara, smiling as the girl stashes her secret cigarettes in the front of her dress, "really nice."

"You must think me awfully rude, but I don't think I got your name?" 

"Barbara,"

"Barbara," the way Trixie softens the syllables, the way her accent coats the word in a tone akin to the sweetness of honey, it makes Barbara's stomach flip, "I like it,"

"So how come you're out here? Is a party not your scene?" asks Barbara, sighing. She can smell the liquor on the girl from where she sits, suspecting the conversation is not exactly a sober one.

"Oh, very much the opposite. Though it's not much of a party when your father is present," Trixie rolls her eyes, "or when he's constantly lamenting the lack of ring on your finger," 

"I don't think it's a problem at all, if that's any consolation," says Barbara, absentmindedly twisting her own band on her finger, "some people live to regret it dreadfully," 

"My father won't see me reach twenty five unmarried," she scoffs a little, the small smile only serving to lighten the mood, despite her words, "no spinsters for the wealthy," 

"You'll find someone, Trixie,"

"I often wonder if I'm simply doomed to be left on the shelf," 

"No! Surely not," 

"My Aunt Phyllis says it's really not that awful, and I'm inclined to agree with her," 

Barbara offers a smile, watching a playful smirk dance across lips still adorned ruby red.

They are silent for a moment, before the back door opens.

"Beatrix! We're starting a game of poker, shall you be joining us?" 

Her mothers voice carries across the entire garden and Barbara watches the girl deflate. 

"What I have learned is that any question I'm asked is actually a command in disguise," she giggles, hopping down off of the wall, her legs much further from the floor with her petite height . 

"I'm coming now!" she shouts back, hearing the door slam shut. "Will you do me the honours?"

"Oh, me? I'm rather quite awful at poker,"

"I can teach you. Besides, my father has some whiskey in him, his poker face will be totally ruined," 

The girl giggles and once again Barbara feels her chest tighten. She hops from the wall herself, allowing Trixie to link their arms together.

"You and Beatrix got on well," says Tom, forcing Barbara to conceal a smile as she sits at the dressing table, brushing through brown waves.

"She's lovely," the thought of the girl burns Barbara's cheeks bright pink. 

"Causes her father a great deal of grief from what I've heard," 

"Young girls are like that, Tom," she meets his eyes in the mirror.

"You aren't,"

" _ Unmarried _ young girls, then." 

She puts the brush down with some aggression.

Tom huffs. Waits a moment.

"He reckons I'm well in the running for the Chief Inspector job," 

"That's good,"

"Said he'll put a good word in,"

"That's wonderful, Tom," 

She sighs, standing and slinking into bed beside him.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks, looking down at her as she drops her head onto the pillow.

"I'm exhausted, Tom,"

"Well. Goodnight then,"

She reaches over and tugs the string of the lamp. 

_ The Rose and Thorns  _ after hours- Barbara's latest comfort. Though she hasn't experienced it's full swing just yet, the little circle she has found makes up for it all. A bus caught from right outside her front door takes her three streets away from the pub that is slowly becoming home. Closing hour is eight, Valerie takes half an hour to clear up and clear out any stragglers demanding their last half pint, Barbara arrives by quarter to. 

Patsy offers a lift home, refusing any offer of gas money, though there hasn't been a night Barbara has failed slipping a few bob into the pocket of her blazer once she leaves for another orange juice. 

Blinds down, doors locked. The scent of stale ale and lunchtime pork pies is familiar, and feels like home to Barbara now. She knocks against the glass, 6 times in the rhythmic fashion she's been taught by now.

Then she's in. Where she belongs. 

"I'm not the only one on the booze, am I?" asks Valerie in mock offense as she sits at the table, placing down a pint of  _ Friel's _ and a pack of pork scratchings, "it's only my entire livelihood," 

"I'm driving, Valerie," says Patsy, reaching over and stealing a particularly large pork scratching. 

"Suit yourself. Babs?" 

"I don't really-" she stops herself, shrugging and throwing a smile to Val, "surprise me." 

Val stands, heading to the bar.

"How are things, Babs?" asks Patsy, tapping a nail against her glass of orange.

"Tom's his usual self, elated about the fact he's made alliances with the commissioner," she smiles at Val as a half-pint is placed in front of her.

"Half pint of  _ Friel's _ cider. Won't get you on the hard liquor just yet, chick," she winks, taking ahold of her suspiciously empty packet of pork scratchings. 

"I assume he attended the commissioner's latest social affair?" asks Patsy, raising a strong, sculpted brow.

"You know about that?" 

"Who doesn't?" chimes Val, "These bobbies get up to more dodgy things than we do," she smirks, popping a pork scratching into her mouth, "well, maybe not  _ us,"  _

"Valerie," says Patsy, a little firmly, "anyway, yes. Commissioner Franklin's biannual events are the talk of The Met," 

"I see," Barbara replies, "it was certainly grand," 

"You went?" asks Val.

"Didn't have much choice in the matter," she replies, "Tom told me I wasn't to show him up," 

"Sounds like a right charmer," says Val, rolling her eyes, "no wonder I stick to women,"

The atmosphere is suddenly scuppered by the rhythmic knocking at the door. The trio wait.

Six exactly. The correct pattern. Valerie stands, unlocking the door with the key attached firmly to her belt.

"Goodness, I've made it!" 

A woman enters, all blonde curls and red lipstick. Barbara is hit with the same bubbly feeling she recalls from the Friday before- the Commissioner's party. 

"Trixie, you certainly know how to make an entrance," 

That's it. Trixie.

"The bus driver decided to get stuck in the most horrendous traffic on the way," 

Their eyes meet.

"Oh, hello, sweetie," she smiles at Barbara, "funny seeing you here," 

"Trixie, you've been gone weeks," says Val, placing a glass of scotch in the available seat, watching as Trixie shrugs the mink from her shoulders. The girl deflates as she sits, nursing the glass in her hand.

"Barbara, what a lovely surprise," she says, completely ignoring Val's comment and Patsy's glare, "definitely a surprise, at that," 

"Trixie," Patsy's tone is firm, "no calls, no nothing,"

Trixie sighs, running a scarlet nail around the rim of her glass.

"My fathers being a bigger nuisance than usual," she says, "it wasn't viable,"

"How do you mean?" asks Val as she lifts herself to sit on the table beside the one holding the other three.

"He's more desperate than ever to bargain me off," 

"Bargain?" Barbara asks, her tone soft.

"He sees me only as an opportunity. Something he owns," Trixie looks down into the amber pool of her glass. 

"Is he looking for someone? For you?"

Trixie shrugs, though it's more avoidance than unknowing.

"It'd be news to me," she replies, "though not a shock," 

There is a moment of silence. Trixie sniffs.

"Anyway," she says, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her handbag.

"Do you have a lighter today?" asks Barbara, the glint in Trixie's eye returning.

"Afraid not. Patsy?" 

Patsy holds the lighter out to her, helping herself to a cigarette in one swift movement.

"Go on then, Trix," says Val, nabbing one herself. Trixie tuts jokingly.

"Well, Barbara, can't be the odd one out, can you?" 

Trixie takes one, gently holding it out to Barbara. She lifts the lighter to her own, then to Barbara's, before sliding it to Patsy.

Barbara coughs a little, smoke leaving her mouth and nose with every splutter. Patsy pats her back lightly, exchanging a smile with the others. 

"We'll have to stop off at  _ Buckle's _ on the way home," says Trixie, taking a long drag.

"Oh, I'm giving you a lift am I?"

"You have just stolen one of my cigarettes, Patsy," she giggles.

"Regretfully. I don't smoke  _ Sobranies _ ." 

"Always so picky, Patsy," 

"Rich coming from you, is it not?"

Trixie's mouth hangs open in mock offence as she leans over the table to swat Patsy's arm. 

"I'm not picky. I simply choose to live my life without the burden of a man," she smirks.

"A wise choice," says Barbara, ashing the cigarette into the ashtray in the center of the table.

"I  _ was _ wondering the situation with you, Barbara," Trixie smiles gently at the brunette, "unless you're going full lavender on us?" 

"I've not the faintest idea what that means, but I assume not,"

"Lavender marriage, chick," says Val, leaning back in her seat, "two homos married in false pretences,"

"Valerie, you really do have a way with words," comes the sharp reply from Patsy.

"No, then. Trust me, not Tom," says Barbara, tinged ever so slightly with sadness.

"He's police, it doesn't surprise me," says Trixie, a sense of solidarity becoming concrete.

"He's- he's alright. Keeps the roof over our head, puts food on the table-" 

"Entirely ghastly, then," smirks Trixie.

"Not my cup of tea," 

"No shit, that's why you're here," grins Val.

"Valerie, please," 

"Sorry, Lady Silver Spoon," Val says, with a wink towards Barbara.

"My father was knighted, not me. I simply inherited his estate, now button it," 

Barbara can't help but giggle at this, the atmosphere safe and warm. She stubs her cigarette into the ashtray, exchanging another shy smile with Trixie.

"So, Valerie, we've all poured our hearts out," 

"Not you," replies Val, eyebrows furrowed.

"Hell will freeze over, darling." is the short, sharp response. 

"Got it," Val nods, stubbing out her cigarette before leaning back in her seat again, "there's not really much to tell, is there?" 

She pauses.

"Not until Patsy," she smiles, looking to the redhead, "not to be all mopey and sentimental, but life really would be hell without Patsy,"

Patsy smiles, tapping her nails against her glass of squash.

"I can second that, Valerie," 

"Good. It would be rather embarrassing if not," she laughs, leaning her elbows on the table. She leans over to Barbara.

"Don't tell anybody, especially her, but Patsy's my best friend," Barbara giggles lightly. 

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, simply out of principle," Patsy stands, stretching long legs.

"Glad the feeling's mutual," Val replies in a mocking huff.

"That absolutely wasn't what I said," she says, smiling.

"Patsy?" 

The car remains stationary as Patsy watches Trixie head up towards her house, having dropped her a few streets away. 

"Mhm?" 

"Was she being serious?" 

"What about?"

"Her father," 

Patsy pulls away as Trixie fades into darkness.

"I'm afraid she was,"

Barbara's heart sinks.

"You mean-"

"Yes. He's going to find her a husband and marry her off if she doesn't do it herself, so either way her life will end up loveless,"

"She deserves much better than that," says Barbara, softly, "I think she's wonderful," 

"You're right there, Babs," sighs Patsy, nodding sadly.

“It’s all rather sad, isn’t it?”

“It is. It’s the only thing I thank my father for, leaving me to my own devices here in England,”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were foreign,”

“I’m not. It’s just easier to exploit the working class outside of Europe,” Patsy sighs, her dejection towards her father made clear in her tone, “the Mounts have operated in Asia for just over a century, shipping everything from tea and sugar to… people,” 

Patsy turns her nose up as she finishes the sentence.

Barbara swallows, hard.

“People?” 

“Transatlantic shipping reared an ugly head in the 1800’s,” she replies, so nonchalantly it takes Barbara by surprise. “Absolutely wretched business. I would refuse my part in it even if my father hadn’t shipped me off to boarding school,” 

“Does your father know about… you?” Barbara gestures vaguely, praying Patsy gets the message. A firm, sad nod of her head, setting red curls bouncing.

"Though, the last image he has of me is an awkwardly tall twelve year old with bright red plaits and a bright pink nose from the sun of her home,” 

“I see,”

Barbara’s street comes into view as Patsy slows the car.

“Though, what did I say? Hell will freeze over before I pour my heart out. Do keep in touch if you need anybody, otherwise I shall see you next week,” she smiles at Barbara, warm and gentle.

“Thank you, Patsy,” she says softly, “goodnight.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to b and frank 💘💝💞

"Beatrix,"

"Father,"

John stands from his armchair as she enters the lounge, only lamplight providing any illumination.

"We need to talk,"

Trixie sighs.

"Look, father, if this is regarding my social life again, I don't care to hear it," she places her handbag on the sofa, looking up at John with piercing blue eyes.

"It isn't," he replies, "it's regarding your marital status,"

Trixie tuts.

"Is now really the time?"

"Yes, it is, Beatrix," he takes his seat again, placing a cigarette between his lips, "you're twenty-one now. If you don't make haste, you're to be left on the shelf,"

"What if that's preferable?" 

John barks a laugh.

"Not to me it isn't," he says, blowing away smoke.

"No, but it's not your life, is it?" 

"It's my reputation. I won't have a spinster for a daughter, I won't," 

"Am I not allowed to choose? Have a career?"

"You can have a career, Beatrix, you just need to ensure you're not collecting dust while you do it," he says as he ashes his cigarette.

Trixie sighs.

"I'm not a bargaining chip," she says, sharp and adamant, "I am a person. I'm not something to be bought or gambled," 

"It's not up for discussion. We've applied to the marriage bureau in your name," his tone is calm and cold, chillingly so.

"You've done  _ what?" _

"You heard me," he smirks at this, ashing his cigarette again, "they were rather delighted to have you on board, may I say,"

"That's not mutual. You had no right to do so,"

"If you're making a shoddy job of everything, it is my job to intervene," he replies, in a matter of fact tone.

"No, it bloody well isn't!" 

"See, Beatrix, all that language," he stands, "it's no wonder, really,"

That settles it. She collects her bag, turning hastily on her heel before she leaves the sitting room. She hesitates for only a second, before leaving through the main doors, stepping out into the inky blackness of the approaching midnight, letting the great oak doors slam with a dramatic thud behind her. 

  
  


“Nice of you to join me,” 

Barbara jumps at the voice as she clicks the door closed behind her, entering the parlour, seeing Tom sat in the armchair, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

“I had half an hour to myself, thought I’d stop by for a brew with my wife,” he looks up at her with tired eyes, “though I come in, and she’s nowhere to be seen,” 

“Sorry,”

“Where have you been?” 

“I went out,”

Tom stands.

“Where? It’s almost ten,”

“Out with some friends,”

Tom scoffs, blowing smoke in Barbara’s direction. 

“You don’t have any of those,” 

There’s a sigh from Barbara.

“Well, I do now,” she looks up at him, her glare steely, “shouldn’t you be at work?” 

Tom steps towards her, though his height barely matches her own.

“You’re seeing another man, aren’t you?” 

Barbara furrows her eyebrows, arms folded as she refuses to break eye contact.

“No, Tom, don’t be ridiculous,” 

He reaches forward, taking her arm strongly in his grip. She pulls it away, as though his touch burns.

“Don’t put your hands on me,” her voice is cold, yet miraculously calm.

He waits a minute, looking her up and down. Then he simply breezes past her, slamming the front door as he leaves.

  
  


Cobbles.

Stumbling.

Occasional headlights, the serenade of an angry horn as Trixie steps too far.

Head pounding.

The stone beneath her swirls as she walks, glass bottle clasped tight, half its contents clouding her vision.

She just needs to make it to Patsy.

_ Patsy. _

"Patsy?" 

Trixie hammers at the heavy oak door, slumping against the carved stone arch it's set into, tired legs barely carrying her weight.

"Patsy!"

The call is desperate, slurred, soaked in the first vodka she could get her hands on.

The lock clicks as Patsy answers the door, surprisingly still clad in her slacks. Immediately, she is hit by the scent of strong spirits emanating from Trixie, eyes falling to the bottle in her hand.

"Trixie?" Less of a question for her, more a confirmation that the smaller blonde girl isn't an illusion, "Heavens, Trixie, what have you done?" 

Trixie doesn't reply, head resting against the wall she's leaning steadily against. She closes heavy eyelids, looking wordlessly at Patsy. The redhead simply nods, beckoning her in.

  
  


Trixie nurses a strong cup of tea between still shivering hands, a pair of Patsy's blue striped pyjamas hanging off of her tiny frame, limbs engulfed with the soft cotton.

"Tell me what happened," says Patsy, firmly, but with a deep compassion she keeps reserved for Trixie.

"He happened," Trixie says, tapping a chipped red nail against her cup, voice tired and still slightly slurred, "he's really doing it, Patsy," 

"Doing what?"

"Selling me off to the highest bidder. They've applied to the marriage bureau, in  _ my  _ name," 

"Goodness,"

"Sometimes I just think everything is so  _ bloody _ pointless," 

"I don't like the sound of that, Trixie,"

"It's not as though I have any sort of a life,"

"You want to nurse, don't you?" 

Trixie scoffs.

"That won't happen, Patsy," she takes a slow gulp, the extra sugar hitting her at once, "not once I'm married off," 

Patsy's eyes hit the floor. 

"Don't do this, Trixie," Patsy reaches across, placing a hand on top of Trixie's, a gesture of comfort as well as warmth.

"I don't have a choice," 

"Don't let it destroy you,"

“Whatever is so wrong with me that I can’t find somebody myself?” Trixie looks up at Patsy through tears.

“Nothing is wrong, Trixie,” 

“I wish things were different, Patsy,” she says, almost a whisper as she chokes back tears, “I wish my father was different, for a start. That way, my life wouldn’t revolve around saving his beastly reputation,”

“How is your father?” Patsy asks, gently, “I imagine the inheritance is held back until there’s somebody on the scene?” 

Trixie nods.

“He’s left some money in there, but as far as any property and assets go, they’re all Clarence’s until I marry,” 

Patsy scoffs.

“Do you suppose you have long?”

Trixie shrugs.

“He smokes like a chimney and drinks like a sailor, despite Doctor Turner’s warnings,”

“No change, then?”

“Definitely not. Though he stays rather silent when it comes to his health, so your guess is likely as good as mine,”

“I assume Clarence is written in,”

“He was never written out,” says Trixie, “my father didn’t look at him on his eighteenth birthday and decide he was a total write-off,”

“You’re not a write-off, Trixie,”

“Tell that to my registration with the marriage bureau,” she says, finishing the last of her tea. 

“It will work out, Trixie, it will. It has to,”

“This whole money business just isn’t what I’m destined for,” 

“How so?”

“All the material things. They’re lovely, they make for a comfortable lifestyle but they don’t excite me, as much as it may surprise you,”

Patsy nods slowly.

“Then what does excite you?”

“The idea of making a difference. Making my life worthwhile,” 

She waits for Patsy’s response, though there isn’t one.

“There’s this convent in the East End,” she watches Patsy’s eyebrows rise, “I know, I know. I’m not running off to be a nun. It’s a nurse’s home as well,” 

“District practice?” 

“Yes. Right in the heart of Poplar,” 

“I see,”

“There’s more for me than wasting my life at a man’s beck and call, and there’s certainly more  _ to  _ me than pin curls and babycham, although those are dreadfully important,” 

Patsy offers a small smile, reaching over for Trixie's hand.

"You'll do wonderful things, Trixie, I know you will," 

There's a little smile from the blonde as she feels Patsy squeeze her hand, warm and reassuring.

"But right now, you need an aspirin and a full night," she says, taking Trixie's empty cup from her, "you know where the guest room is by now, I'm sure,"

Trixie nods as she stands, waiting a moment.

"Thank you, Patsy," 

She turns and heads sleepily up the stairs.

_ Blurred, messy. White and gold and pink, muddling together. Time slows. He is tall, yet nameless. Faceless. Her chest is tightened by fear and corset lace.  _

_ "I do,"  _

_ The words are spoken before she can think. She's not thinking. She's not present. It's all happening before she can register it. _

Trixie jolts awake, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. She brings herself to sit upright, face wet with salt. The room is warm, yet she shivers under the eiderdown, trying to still her racing mind. 

She pads out of the guest room, tiptoeing gently down the hall until she meets the door she's looking for. In a swift movement, she enters the room, seeing the redhead lying still in the bed. 

Trixie is gentle and cautious with her movements, sliding into the space beneath the duvet beside Patsy. The other woman barely stirs as the mattress beside her dips, the sheets ruffling as Trixie huddles down. Wordlessly, Patsy turns over, wrapping an arm over Trixie's still shaking frame, holding her to her chest. 

“Bad dream?” Patsy murmurs softly.

“Mm,” replies Trixie.

That is that. As much as needs to be said. Patsy feels Trixie soften in her arms, a sense of relief washing over her as she drifts back off herself, the subtle scent of vodka wilfully ignored as she settles.

  
  


Barbara sits at her dressing table, the morning sun filtering in through the curtains. She hisses as she lightly prods the fingerprints now painted light purple at the top of her arm, her heart sinking at their presence. She pulls the sleeve of her cardigan up and over her shoulder, the bruises vanishing beneath the fabric. Tom stirs in the bed behind her, setting her heart racing ever so slightly, though she is well aware of his tendency for deep slumber.

The house is silent, always is after Tom’s night shifts, and Barbara rolls her sleeves up, setting about on the pile of washing that sits in the basket. 

Her silent, methodical cleaning routine is suddenly thwarted by the demanding row of a car horn outside. She dries her hands, heading towards the front door. 

The familiar grey car she was in only last night sits on the street, it’s equally familiar redheaded driver sitting behind the wheel, pressing the horn with a signature lopsided smile. In the passenger seat sits Trixie, complete with sunglasses and a silky scarf covering her platinum hair.

“Patsy and I are heading out for coffee and we wondered if you’d care to join?” Trixie shouts through the cracked window, with a smile that presumably lights her entire face if Barbara could see most of it, that is. 

“Of course,” says Barbara, returning the smile. She simply turns, taking her bag from where it sits in the hall, before she leaves, heading towards the car. 

“You’ll have to excuse the ghastly state of me today, Barbara,” 

“I thought you looked lovely, Trixie,” replies Barbara, sheepishly.

“It’s a long story, though let’s leave it at the fact that these are yesterday’s pin curls,” Trixie pulls down her sunglasses, observing herself in the rear view mirror, sighing heavily at herself.

“I see,” 

“It’s beastly, I know,”

“Trixie, please stop stressing so much,” says Patsy as she takes a corner perhaps a little too briskly, “you look fine,”

“I’m wearing oversized, plaid slacks, Patsy,” she sighs.

“As am I?” Patsy forces herself to avoid a laugh, knowing it would only add fuel to the flames.

“That’s entirely different,” 

“How so?”

“Because they’re  _ your  _ slacks!” 

“I don’t own any slacks,” sighs Barbara as she looks out of the window.

“A woman after my own heart, truly,” replies Trixie with a sweet smile, “brunch is a summer dress and pearls affair. Slacks are for jazz clubs and- Patsy,” 

“Valerie wears slacks,”

“Valerie is barely a woman,” 

“Now that’s not fair,” says Patsy, biting back a laugh.

“It’s entirely fair,” giggles Trixie, “What did you say she was again?”

“Butch,” the reply is said through a sigh, Patsy’s eyes not leaving the road. 

“Exactly. Do you envision Valerie in a slinky chiffon number?”

“Definitely  _ not,” _ says Barbara with a dimpled grin.

“Precisely! Barbara gets it, Patsy,” Trixie looks at Barbara through the mirror, “I’d watch it, or I may just end up loving her more than I love you,”

The words, for some, illogical reason, cause Barbara’s heart to quicken. She shakes it off, bringing herself back to the conversation.

“Truly, I’m terrified,” says Patsy, her tone completely unfazed, “no more sleepovers at the Mount Residence,” 

“You’d miss me far too much,” says Trixie with a wink.

Patsy nods, well aware that the girl is absolutely right. 

Seated within the cozy atmosphere of  _ Nomads _ , each woman nurses a strong cup of coffee, or for Barbara an extra sweet hot chocolate, with its own dome of whipped cream, a little pile of sugar packets collecting at Trixie’s space. 

“Trixie, you really ought to take your sunglasses off inside,” says Patsy, lighting a cigarette with experienced hands. 

“Absolutely not,” replies Trixie, the lack of panstick underneath glaringly obvious. 

“I love this place,” says Barbara, focussing on nothing in particular, “the name is so interesting, isn’t it? I always wonder what it’s like to simply pitch up and leave everything behind,”

“Sweetie, you’re from Liverpool, you’re already all the way across the country,” says Trixie, plucking the lit cigarette from Patsy’s slender fingers.

“Well, yes, I suppose,” smiles Barbara, “though running away isn’t as much of an adventure when you’re destined to become a housewife,” 

“Luckily you have us, to preserve some sanity for you,”

“Though living full time with a man, it’s a wonder you’ve any left,” Patsy takes her cigarette back from Trixie, passing it to Barbara who by now simply takes it, no questions asked. She takes a slow drag, holding on before she exhales. A stray bundle of ash from the end falls off, still glowing amber, landing on the breast of her cardigan.

“Oh, rats,” she says, handing the cigarette back to Patsy as she removes the offending article, in order to survey the damage.

Patsy’s eyes can’t help but drift to the purple circles, now more pronounced given over twelve hours to darken, adorning the pale skin of Barbara’s arm.

“It doesn’t look too bad, I’ll have to break out the sewing kit,” she pulls the cardigan back over her arms, “nothing a bit of thread can’t fix,”

She picks her spoon back up, stirring her slowly cooling hot chocolate.

“Babs-” 

“I know,” she says, looking at the table.

“Did he-” begins Trixie.

“It’s fine, he just grabbed me a little too hard, nothing malicious,” Barbara looks up, offering them a shy smile.

“He shouldn’t grab you  _ at all,  _ Barbara,” says Patsy. Barbara simply shrugs.

“Patsy, honestly, it was an accident,” 

Patsy takes a deep breath in.

“He isn’t violent, he just- gets a little ahead of himself sometimes. He was tired, I was-”

“I’ll allow you to make simple excuses for him, but I draw the line at placing any blame on yourself,” says Trixie, lighting a cigarette of her own.

“I agree, Babs,” says Patsy, “does it hurt?”

“Please,” she replies, quietly, “I said it was alright. It is, I promise. It’s a few tiny bruises, they’ll be gone in a few days anyway,” 

Patsy sighs, sending thin smoke trailing upwards. She simply nods, knowing further argument is futile. She swallows the uneasy feeling, the best she can, at least.

For Barbara's sake, and Barbara's sake alone.


	4. Chapter 4

"Valerie," Patsy's voice is adamant over the phone as it crackles, "I need to speak with you,"

_ "What's up, chick?" _ Behind Val, the gentle hum of the lunch rush can be heard, setting Patsy's teeth on edge at the thought.

"It's not really a conversation for the phone," 

_ "Right. Well, I promised I'd head into Poplar and help Flo switch the kegs at the Sail later,"  _

Patsy sighs.

_ "Why don't you pop down now?" _

"Too loud. You know I don't visit at busy hours," 

Val's turn to huff a sigh as she thinks. 

_ "Right. I'll let Flo know I'll be a bit later," _

"Thank you," 

Then a click.

  
  


"You really ought to stop this disappearing act," 

Trixie is greeted by Ella's voice as she pulls the door shut behind her.

"I was annoyed," 

"We really do need to discuss all this, Trixie,"

Ella emerges from the lounge, holding a dusting cloth between manicured hands.

"Discuss  _ what _ ? The fact you're flogging me off like cattle?" 

"It's not like that,"

"Yes it is. It's exactly what it's like. It's dehumanising,"

"Perhaps if you tried harder for yourself, rather than waltzing around all the time, getting drunk, we wouldn't be in this predicament,"

"Mama, I'm twenty one, I'm barely gathering dust,"

"Look, love, I know it isn't what you want,"

"It's what my father wants,"

"Yes, and unfortunately we're under his roof,"

Trixie rolls her eyes. 

"What if I wasn't under his roof?" 

"Is this about moving to Poplar again?"

"Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't," 

"Love, I recognise the courage, but-"

"No. I'm not ending up like  _ you _ ,"

Trixie folds her arms, blue eyes casting a piercing gaze upon her mother.

"Pardon?" 

Her mother meets her eyes, finally.

"I'm not ending up a housewife with a vile husband and two children I can't stand,"

"Trix-"

"Loveless marriages only ever end in pain, and if you  _ truly _ loved me you wouldn't force me into one," 

"Who says it is destined to be loveless?"

"You can't put two souls together on the off chance they will be the next  _ Romeo and Juliet,"  _

Ella sighs, struggling for words. Her thought process is cut off by Trixie. 

"Or perhaps we will end up like  _ Romeo and Juliet.  _ Since you're so desperate for it," 

She heads up the stairs, leaving her mother in the hall. 

She emerges again just an hour later, in a rather humble (for Trixie at least) dress and coat arrangement, curls reset and meticulously blow dried into place. The rouge she uses as armour has reappeared, the real Trixie making her return.

"I'm heading out," she trills as she crosses the hall to the door, bus timetable folded and tucked in the breast pocket of her coat. Giving Ella a chance to reply would only give way to argument, so Trixie darts through the door before she can.

Right into her father's path.

Steadfast, adamant to not give him the satisfaction he craves, she continues past him. 

"Father,"

"Beatrix?" 

No reply. Just as he deserves. 

Trixie's eyes float in and out of focus as she looks idly out of the smoke smeared bus window. Her mind fills with the hum of the engine, the low buzzing of afternoon chatter, cigarette smoke from every angle. 

"Alright, chick? Where are you off to, then?"

Trixie turns, stirred from her daydream, seeing Valerie sit beside her.

"Where are you heading?" asks Trixie, somewhat accidentally avoiding her question.

"My aunt's pub, in Poplar. Promised I'd help change the kegs," 

"Poplar," Trixie smiles.

"Is that where you're headed, by any chance?" 

Trixie nods.

"What beckons? The gloriously picturesque docks or the meths drinkers?" 

Trixie giggles a little. 

"It's where I want to work once I finish my training," 

"You got in then?" 

Trixie shakes her head slowly.

"Not yet. I will soon, I hope. Then I have an excuse in the form of the nurses' home," 

"Of course, yeah," Val waits a little, "you'll make a cracking little nurse, you will," 

"It's all I can hope for," 

She returns her gaze to outside the window.

  
  


Nursing a cone of chips each, wrapped in grease speckled newspaper, Val and Trixie walk in synchronised steps through cobbled streets. 

"I can't believe you want to be a Nonnatun," 

"Is that bad?" Trixie asks sweetly as she bites a chip in half.

"No, chick, not at all," she replies, "the Nonnatuns are a big part of Poplar, I'd love to see you in that blue uniform one day. You'd style it out for sure," 

They round the corner, a large brick house coming into view, an oversized set of concrete steps leading to a flaking red door. They stop just short of the house, taking each window pane and cement line in. As they stand, a woman dressed in a full habit steps out, fiddling with the button of her navy coat.

"Afternoon, sister," says Valerie, causing the nun to look up.

"Valerie, you're looking well. It's been a while," 

Val nods uneasily, dropping the chip that rests between her fingertips back into the paper.

"It has, hasn't it?" she smiles, taking a breath, "Sister Julienne, this is my friend, Trixie. She hopes to work as a nurse within Poplar one day," 

Sister Julienne steps forward, smiling at Trixie.

"Any friend of Val's is a friend of Nonnatus House," she says softly, smiling at the two women with a gentle, maternal compassion that sends warmth washing over Trixie's entire being, "I'd best be going, but you are always welcome for tea and whatever biscuits we have managed to rescue from Sister Monica Joan," 

Sister Julienne excuses herself, walking off down the street the younger two had trekked just moments before. There is a pause before Val flicks her wrist to view her watch.

"We'd better head off to Flo's," she says, turning, "I'll sneak you a glass of something if you want," 

"I'll take an orange juice,"

Val raises an eyebrow, though she makes no further attempts.

"So how exactly do you know Sister Julienne?" Trixie asks, tapping a gentle pink nail against her glass of orange, perched atop an empty keg.

"I did use to live here, you know," Val replies, hauling a keg of bitter across the basement.

"Well, yes, but you're not exactly the type to be on first name terms with a nun," 

Val sighs, fiddling with the hose.

"We just crossed paths at one point," she says, shrugging.

"Were  _ you  _ a Nonnatun?" asks Trixie, drenched in soft naivety. 

She watches Val tense up slightly.

"No. I wasn't," 

"Oh," 

"Look, Trixie," Val turns, leaning against the kegs she's midway through switching, "the truth's a lot more complex than it may seem,"

"You can talk to me, Val. I promise," she offers a slight smile. 

"Right," 

Val takes a seat on the empty keg.

"When I was seventeen, I found myself in this-  _ awful _ predicament," 

Trixie's face drops.

"My gran knew how to do things, to fix the- problem I had," Val's hands lace together in her lap, fiddling only slightly, "I went to Sister Julienne when it all started going wrong. When it made me ill. She saved my life that day, vowed that she'd stay with me through it all, she did 'n all" 

Val pauses for only a moment.

"The thing is, Trixie, I still lied to her. I told her I couldn't remember who, or where, told her things were foggy with the blood loss," 

"Did she believe it?"

" 'Course she did. Everybody knew what my gran did. Nobody would give her up, because they _ need  _ her. Young girls go and 'visit gran' when things turn out unexpectedly. I just got unlucky, it wasn't her fault,"

"It wasn't yours either, Val,"

"It most importantly wasn't hers. Wasn't her karma to receive. So I lied to protect her. Trixie, this happens all over the East End. There aren't many women who don't know where to find Granny Dyer, or how much she charges, or even her advice of a hot bath and sleep," 

Trixie nods.

"By the paling of your face, I can tell it's a shock, and I can also tell you that it needs to be second nature to you if you intend to work here," she offers a reassuring smile.

"So these women just… get rid of babies?" Trixie asks, mind still ticking.

"They give young women freedom,"

"But she took away yours,"

"Almost. But I survived. A little damaged, though that's no problem now," 

"But-"

"A working womb does not a woman make. I live my life as I want, and I'm entirely sure Patsy would tell you the same," 

Trixie nods.

"I wasn't the first, and I won't be the last. But young women like you are going to change this world, chick, and make people like my gran obsolete," Val reaches across for Trixie's hand, taking it firmly in her own.

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Val," she says, still stunned.

"Don't be. You're going to make a wonderful midwife, one that women can turn to when they feel the fear and loneliness that turns them to my gran. You've got me, and Patsy and Barbara,"

Val stands, immediately returning to the kegs she's left discarded.

"Flo'll have my guts for garters if I finish half a job," 

Trixie simply sits in thought. 

"Does Patsy know?" 

"Of course she does," 

"Right," 

"Says if she ever meets my gran she'll give her what for,"

"Oh," 

"Look, I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't, I promise. But this is the reality of this bloody place, and if you want to work in the thick of it all you have to be prepared,"

"It's fine Val, really. I understand," 

"Maybe you can teach Patsy, then,"

Trixie furrows her brows slightly.

"I would have thought she'd understand," Trixie sips her drink, "all things considered,"

"Patsy, despite all her lived experiences and her friendships in all corners, is still a product of privilege. She can't, or at least  _ couldn't  _ when we met, fathom the idea of feeding six children on a loaf of bread. She didn't quite get the fear of it, that drives these women to the butcher"

Trixie nods.

"Does she get it now, do you think?" 

"She never looked down on me for what I did. I think my situation was a little different for her, though she's still vehemently against women like my gran, purely for the dangers,"

"That makes sense," she pauses, just for a moment. "I think you're very brave, Val,"

Val cracks a little smile at this, wiping the top of a keg before she turns. 

"I don't think I could go through what you went through," she continues, swirling the last dregs of orange in her glass.

"I pray every single night that the three of you never bloody do, chick," 

  
  


It is that very night when Barbara finally approaches the subject.

"I'm going out tomorrow night," she announces, bold and strong, as they watch the evening's news.

"What?" Tom turns his head to face her.

"I said I'm going out. I'll leave some supper for you," 

Tom suddenly stands, barely matching Barbara's height, though she gulps away fear regardless.

"Got another one on the side, hey?" 

"No. I simply have a life that doesn't revolve around you, Tom," she replies, staying firmly planted to the ground, no matter how much her heart tells her to run. She can smell stale alcohol on Tom's breath, from one too many tipples in his coffee.

"I'm your husband. Your life will  _ always  _ revolve around me," he says, eyes narrowing as he stares down at Barbara.

"You're wrong, Tom," she says, meeting his eye, "my life is my own. I have friends and I shall be going out and socialising with them," 

There's a pause, the earth stopping on its axis for a second. 

Then Tom advances forwards.

Barbara hits the ground. Hard.

Then he leaves. 

She can't say why she's compelled towards the telephone, can't remember, even, but she's there, spinning the dial to the number she keeps tucked in her lipstick case. The line crackles a bit with adjustment before the rich lilt of a familiar voice drowns everything out.

_ "Mount Residence, who's speaking please?" _

Barbara waits a little bit, back aching with impact, chest burning with fright.

"Patsy?" 

Her voice is quiet and defeated.

_ "Babs? Oh, Babs, what's happened? Have you been crying?" _

"Uhm. Sorry. I shouldn't have telephoned. I don't know why I did. Sorry," 

_ "Barbara. What's happened? Has he hurt you?" _ Patsy's tone is defensive, as though she's armed and ready for war, all for Barbara.

She takes the silence as an immediate yes.

"Look, it's fine, Patsy. Really. I'm alive, aren't I. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called," 

_ "Do you need me to come and collect you?"  _

Barbara shakes her head, a futile but subconscious move.

"I don't know where he's gone. I imagine he'll be back soon. I dread to think what should happen if I was to disappear," Barbara speaks a mile a minute, chest tightening still.

_ "Babs." _

"I stood up to him, Patsy. Before he pushed me. I told him I was going out, tomorrow," 

_ "Oh, Babs. Please, let me come and collect you. You need a good, strong cup of tea and a firm hug. I don't give out hugs often, mind you," _

Barbara can tell Patsy has that fishhook smirk of hers painted right across her face and it brings her a silent comfort.

"I'll be alright, Patsy. I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll see you tomorrow evening, won't I?"

_ "Of course you will," _

"Wonderful,"

_ "Barbara," _ she says, hastily, in case Barbara is ready to leave her.

"Yes?"

_ "Be careful, please. We all need you," _

The line hums as it disconnects.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the girls finally get their night out together as barbara finds an unlikely connection to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to frank... obvs <3

Barbara breathes in the late night July air through the slight gap in the window, chin resting on her hand as she watches London pass her by. 

The cool leather of Patsy’s passenger seats hits the part of her back on show in the dress she was only able to wear out of the house with a cleverly placed cardigan concealing the parts Tom wouldn’t possibly approve of. 

There is a squeal from the front seat as Patsy hits a pothole, causing Trixie to smear a dash of red lipstick near her nose as she focuses on the compact she’s holding.

“Oh, marvellous! Great driving, Patsy,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“It was hardly  _ my  _ fault,” replies Patsy, biting back a laugh. Trixie tilts the mirror in her hand, just so that Barbara is in her view.

“Are you excited, Barbara?” she asks sweetly, rubbing at the stray lipstick. 

Barbara nods, with a simple ambiguous murmur. Patsy thinks back to the telephone call she received just the night before, the one Trixie has no idea about. Barbara funnily enough thinks about the same thing.

She can't help her thoughts from lingering on the dull ache in her back that won’t budge, no matter how much she medicates it, though she won’t let on. Won’t let herself ruin their night, especially not Trixie’s. Just for tonight, things will be okay, she decides.

“I am, I promise,” she says, smiling as sweetly as she can muster. Trixie peers round the seat. The dim light of the car, the faint glow of the streetlamps as they pass, illuminate Trixie's face in a way that makes Barbara's stomach flip. Trixie smiles at her.

“You really ought to tell your face that,” she replies, her tone light and innocent, “I’m sure we can get you some Babycham to lift those nerves,”

Nerves. Of course. That’s all. 

They come to a stop around the back of  _ The Rose and Thorns,  _ Patsy tucking the car into a space Barbara assumes is left for her. 

They head to the door at the back of the pub, half concealed by pallets, Barbara watches as Patsy raps her knuckles against the rusting metal. It opens with a creak, answered by a tall woman with close-cropped hair. 

"Patsy," she says, allowing the redhead inside.

"They're with me, Lottie," she replies, ushering Barbara and Trixie in behind her.

"Will you be joining us tonight? I'll get you a drink," 

Patsy shakes her head.

"Far too loud, far too cramped, far too- much," she says, eyes darting up to the staircase on her left, the one leading up to where Valerie resides, "you know me. Is Valerie around tonight?" 

"She's closing up, or she was, about ten minutes ago. I'll get a bourbon sent up to you," 

"Thank you," she replies, "this is Barbara, you know my Trixie by now, I hope," 

" 'Course. How could I forget Trixie Franklin?" 

"Not in a hurry, I hope," laughs Trixie. 

Lottie heads off down the staircase, Barbara and Trixie in tow. 

"I'll be upstairs with Valerie. Don't hesitate to find me, should you need me," Patsy shouts behind them. 

The downtrodden little bar area is full of life, warm and buzzing with energy. Women fill the scuffed wood floor, holding each other in quiet embraces or laughing in each other's company. There are women in slacks, women in dresses, those with curls and crimps, or even Jean Seberg-esque short styles. Every woman imaginable, every size and shape and fashion.

There are giggly girls, young and full of liquor, much like Trixie. They twirl their skirts, dim light catching the delicately fashioned silks that certainly weigh on their wallets.

The quiet and mature women who stand a half foot taller than their companion, taking time to breathe and embrace the moment, as Patsy may, should she truly embrace the environment. 

There are women truly lost in it all, branching out, prim and proper in pearls and hand sewn dresses, potentially taking their time away from the man they refuse to love. Barbara sits in that homely sense, the feeling of peace and belonging truly hitting her chest. 

She watches Trixie flounce off, finding herself amongst a small group of girls much like herself, in diamonds and red lipstick. There is a dull ache again for Barbara, not in a wounded way, rather in the realisation that she is an outsider to this world. 

Patsy has Valerie, sitting upstairs, putting the world to rights in their quiet bubble, sipping down bourbon from grateful patrons. Trixie has more friends than she knows what to do with, friends that match her in stature and likely wealth. They giggle and flounce, squealing as the record changes to one they recognise and presumably adore. 

Then, there's Barbara.

That dull ache is how Barbara finds herself away from the crowd only slightly, standing at the bar with a blonde woman, complete with tailored slacks, whose lilting voice brings her a sense of security. 

  
  
  


"Patsy, what did you want to talk about? The other day? You never showed," 

Patsy sighs as she stands just inside Val's flat, besides the fireplace, running a finger along the wood, ever a stickler for dust.

"Barbara, mainly,"

"Barbara?" Val asks, handing her a glass of red, beckoning her to the sofa. "Oh, no, Pats, are you-"

"No, don't be ridiculous Valerie. I'm worried about her,"

"Oh,"

"She was covered in bruises the other day, and I received a rather hysterical phone call last night," 

Val's face drops as she runs a finger along the edge of her glass.

"Shit," 

Patsy doesn't even correct her language.

"I haven't met her husband, though I imagine he's rather unpleasant," 

"Does he-" 

"Yes, and I fear he'll only get worse," 

  
  
  


"It's your first time here, isn't it?" they ask in the broadest Scouse accent Barbara has heard since she hit London, leaning across the bar. Barbara nods.

"That obvious?" 

"I can always tell, it comes with the territory," they smile, sliding a Babycham across the wood to Barbara, "I'm Frank," 

"Barbara," she replies, looking timidly at her surroundings, the crowd of women of all walks of life filling the floor, worries drowned in various types of liquor.

"Welcome to _The Wilting Violet_ , the best place for meeting and embracing a close lady friend, besides Gateways, though that's West, nobody goes up West," Frank smiles, a grin that screams of mischief and well placed sarcasm.

Barbara's unease fades slightly. 

"You stick with me, hen. I know my way around this place," Frank reaches behind the bar, pouring themself a glass of bourbon.

Barbara offers a smile.

"I've met so many women like me, Frank, I didn't realise this many existed,"

"Of course we do, we're just not really allowed to. But what's life without a little anarchy?" 

"It's nice, not being alone," Barbara says, taking a sip.

"Oh, definitely. It's refreshing, being with other lesbians,"

"Lesbians?" 

Frank lets out a little laugh, placing their glass onto the counter.

"That's what we are, hen," they say, "homosexual's generally what they call the blokes, although it's quite unsavory, I think. They've also taken the word 'gay', I guess cause we're all so happy to be- I'm not sure, you know," 

"Better than some of the things I've heard people shout at Valerie," Barbara says, soft naivety drenching her tone, "you wouldn't believe, Frank," 

"I'm sure I would," they say, with a small smile, "anyway, enough about me. What's your deal? Escaped spy on the run, shacking up with blondie over there?"

Frank gestures across to Trixie, who is presently flirting (presumably) with a girl at least a head taller than herself.

Barbara shakes her head with a grin.

"A lot less exciting than that, I'm afraid. I left Liverpool when I was seventeen, no illicit affairs, just boring, whirlwind fairytale stuff," she sighs, swirling the Babycham in her glass.

"Surely not? Another Scouser and I didn't catch on?" 

"I don't sound like one anymore, but I promise I am," Barbara slips into her hometown lilt for only a second, causing Frank's eyes to light up.

"There's definitely another Babycham on the house in order, Barbara,"

There's a pause as Barbara swirls the last of her drink in her glass.

"Listen, Frank, I really don't mean to pry, but what you said about Patsy-"

"I don't think that's my place, hen," replies Frank, though it's not necessarily with any force, "Patsy's story to tell, not mine," 

They smile, sliding Barbara's second complementary drink towards her before lifting the hatch of the bar and approaching another blonde in the crowd.

Barbara feels a hand on her arm, beckoning her away from the bar. Trixie takes her by both hands, the smell of liquor hitting Barbara already.

"Trixie," she smiles, looking into the other girl's eyes, "are you drunk?"

"Positively," Trixie giggles, "dance with me, Barbara," 

She lets Trixie take her in a tipsy embrace, squeezing her hands tight. It's not until Trixie presses herself closely to Barbara's body, when her perfume mixes with the liquor she's enjoyed perhaps a little too much, that Barbara's heart begins to race. She allows herself to hold onto Trixie, the blonde resting her head against her shoulder. Barbara's body softens, tension dissolving that she didn't realise had built.

Standing on the scuffed wooden floor, liquor causing static in her head, Trixie held against her chest, Barbara feels the dull ache subside. If only for tonight, she is safe. 


	6. Chapter 6

"Tonight was wonderful," says Barbara, holding an arm around Trixie as the blonde nestles into her side. 

"Now you've seen The Violet in full swing. See, Barbara, I told you there are lots of us," replies Patsy from the driver's seat, the only one not clouded by liquor. 

"It was amazing. I think Trixie enjoyed herself, too," 

Patsy glances in the rear view mirror, taking a look at the girl Barbara is holding to her side, keeping her still against the movement of the car as she sleeps in a drunk haze. 

"Certainly. I won't be able to take her home tonight, not like this," Patsy sighs a little as she turns a corner, eyes flicking between the road and the two figures in the backseat. 

"We'll have to wake her, then," says Barbara, absentmindedly running her fingertips along Trixie's arm. 

Patsy shakes her head. 

"I've carried her plenty of times," she says, "there's nothing to her, really. Let her sleep. She'll need it come the morning," 

"Come on, you," Patsy snakes her arm around Trixie's back, lifting her from the car with a rehearsed ease that suggests it truly isn't a rare occurrence for her. 

Barbara follows up the stairs, into the guest bedroom that is so marked by the distinct scent of Trixie's perfume, it really ought to just be hers. Patsy lays her gently onto the mattress, pulling the comforter over her. 

"No use trying to get her into anything comfortable, though I don't think she's too burdened by it at present," says Patsy, heading to the dressing table. 

"I imagine she'll have the most ridiculous headache tomorrow," says Barbara, leaning against the door frame. She watches as Patsy sits at the edge of the bed, armed with a bottle of lotion and a cotton pad. 

"Serves her right, the silly mare," she says, but it's soft, almost endearing. She begins working away at Trixie's makeup, the cotton pads staining with all the different hues. 

"She'd never forgive me if I allowed her to sleep in her warpaint," she says, with a little fish hook smile. 

"You're a good friend, Patsy," says Barbara, gently. 

"I do try," Patsy says, smoothing a hand over Trixie's hair before she stands, replacing the lotion and heading for the door, "Heaven knows she needs somebody to be good to her,"

  
  


“I don’t really like to drink a lot,” says Barbara as Patsy offers her a glass of scotch, accepting a humble lemonade instead, “it does weird things to people,”

Patsy nods. They enter Patsy’s lounge, an old fashioned room, elegantly decorated still, complete with an already lit fireplace. Barbara takes a spot on the sofa, Patsy nestling into an armchair, a glass of strong amber liquid in hand.

“I wasn’t planning on drinking at all, but one of the bartenders insisted I have a Babycham on the house,”

“Blonde girl? Scouse?” 

Barbara nods, earning a smile from Patsy.

“Frank’s brilliant. One of the first bartenders I hired for The Violet,”

“We got talking, while Trixie was dancing. She taught me some things, about- well-”

Patsy looks at her, waiting for her to finish.

“Oh?”

“Patsy, I- don’t- I don’t mean to pry,” Barbara looks into her glass, “but she-”

“She told you I don’t like to be named as- as a lesbian,” 

The word seems to physically hurt Patsy as she forces herself to say it.

“Yes, though she didn’t say why, and you mustn’t feel as though you have to say either,” 

Patsy stares hard into the flickering embers, making no move to flick the growing end of her cigarette as it sits between idle fingers. 

"I was thirteen. So was she, a dainty thing with this dark brown hair that never stayed put. Caught by the pastor behind the oak tree we sought shade under more times than we could remember. Dragged home to my father, away from her. I thought it was simply because she was the cobbler’s daughter, not at all because she was a daughter full stop. Naivety made me believe that my wealth was the sticking point, or more so, my father’s wealth." 

She pauses, taking a slow, steadying drag. 

"There was an awful lot of shouting, that remains at least. I could barely stand it, though I was rather naive to believe that would be the extent of my pain. I can still hear it in the silence. My sister was in my mother’s arms. I don’t know which of us cried most, you know." 

"What happened, Patsy?" 

Patsy swallows hard, her face showing painful reminiscence. 

"They took me away that night. I lost everything, branded a social deviant." 

She shakes her head, as though it's a last ditch attempt to rid herself of it all. Barbara moves to place a hand on her trembling knee, though Patsy shrugs it off. 

"The things they do to us, Babs. The thought of it- I couldn't bear it," 

"It's okay, Patsy, you don't hav-" 

"During the day, they hit and hit, using whatever means they had to fix me. The electricity numbed it all, though only slightly. During the night, the place just filled with these horrendous screams. There was no peace, none at all," 

She stubs out the tiny remnant of her cigarette, lighting another instantaneously. 

"The louder it got, the more it hurt, the more I cried. They branded me entirely useless for that, on top of the rest of it," 

Barbara nods, her eyes never leaving Patsy. 

"How did you- how did you get out?" 

"They moved me to the general ward a year or so in. I took my chance one night and scaled the wall in the yard before they even had chance to stop me," 

She takes another slow drag. 

"Of course, in my blind stupidity, my port of call was to return home. I always assumed I'd be able to fool them into believing I was cured, though it all proved rather futile," 

She pauses, for only a second. 

"I arrived at a pile of rubble, Barbara. I later found out they'd stormed it in the middle of the night, while my father was away, burnt the place to the bloody ground," 

Smoke fills the air, thick and grey. Patsy blows it away lightly. 

"My mother and sister were inside. They- well you can imagine. Finding yourself at fifteen with blood on your hands is a frightful affair," 

"Patsy, no, it's not your fault at all," 

"They burnt the word 'queer' into the lawn, Babs. They did it because of me, because I’m a queer. They did it to get me, though they failed, and now I must live with that," 

She simply reaches for her glass, sinking the rest of the amber spirit it contains. 

“Last I knew, my father was in Hong Kong. I live off of my mother’s assets, the ones she refused to give up, even when they took me away. Not that there’s anybody else to inherit them,”

“Patsy,” 

“Babs,”

“You know that you’re none of those things, right? You’re wonderful and a brilliant friend. I think Trixie would agree. Valerie, too,” 

Patsy sighs.

“I’m certain you’d all be absolutely fine without me,” she forces a smile. “It’s late, Babs. Get yourself off to bed, else you’ll have a dreadful headache come the morning,”

Barbara stands, leaving her glass on the coffee table.

“Goodnight, Patsy,”

“Goodnight,” 

The day begins at five A.M. 

As all great days do. 

It is soundtracked by the occasional heaving from the bathroom across the landing, harmonized with the call of "I'm never drinking again!" 

Not true. 

Trixie sits leaning on the edge of the toilet, face paper white and beaded with sweat. Barbara sits beside her, a gentle hand running up and down her back. 

"You don't learn, do you?" Patsy enters holding a glass of water, handing it to the blonde. 

"It was fun, Patsy," she says weakly, "but this- this isn't," 

"For you at least," 

Barbara makes a mad dash to hold Trixie's hair back as she leans back over the toilet. 

"Breathe, Trixie," she soothes.

"Take it you're 'never drinking again'?" Patsy asks with a smirk, perching on the edge of the bathtub.

"Shut up, Patience," replies Trixie, shooting a glance towards Patsy.

"Whatever you say, Beatrix,

“You’re not helping whatsoever,” Trixie whines, melting into the touch of Barbara’s hand on her back.

“I’m permitted to make as many jokes as I want, given the time I had to scrub the Turkish rug on the landing,” 

Barbara bites her lip, though the smile makes it through regardless.

“I offered to have it cleaned professionally,” 

“My point still stands, Franklin,” 

“When the room stops spinning, Patsy, I swear-” 

She’s cut off again. Patsy sighs.

“I did say the Advocaat was a risky idea, Trixie,” says Babs, gently squeezing Trixie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Barbara, not you as  _ well,”  _ Trixie sighs, falling back against the bathtub, looking between Barbara and Patsy, “we get it, I’m living out my youth, how dreadful of me,” 

“If you’d like to stop living out your youth all over my bathroom tiles, it would be appreciated,” 

  
  


“One day, Trixie, you will use your legs in this bloody house,” says Patsy, placing Trixie back into the spare bed. 

“How dreadfully boring that would be,” she mutters, rolling over, bundling the blankets around her as she shivers. Patsy places a plastic bowl on the bedside table with great force.

“Not on the silk bedspreads, please. If you’d aim for the bowl, I’d be eternally grateful,” Patsy turns to leave, Barbara following her.

“Barbara,” comes the muffled voice from the bed. The taller girl turns.

“Yes, Trixie?”

“Stay with me? Please?” she answers, patting the bed beside her, “I’m freezing,” 

Barbara sighs lightly, slinking under the covers. Trixie nestles into her side at once.

“As long as you aren’t sick on me,” smiles Barbara.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Patsy is ever so dramatic,” says Trixie, earning a laugh from Barbara. Trixie groans, “stop moving, you’ll send me dizzy again,”

They lie in silence for a moment.

“Besides, I don’t think throwing up all over a pretty girl is the most recommended method, do you?”

The dull ache returns.

“Aim away from yourself then, I suppose,” Barbara says, resting her chin atop Trixie’s head.

“You’re funny, Barbara,” the other girl replies, sleepily, “I like you,”

  
  


Patsy appears in the room at around eight, a firm hand on Trixie's shoulder, rousing her awake.

"What do you  _ want?"  _ she grumbles, burying her head in the crook of Barbara's neck.

"Up and out, I'm afraid," she says, placing a steaming mug on the bedside table and pulling a bottle of aspirin from the pocket of her slacks, "Clarence is here,"

Trixie buries her face into the pillow, emitting an irritated groan that is very much verging on a scream, and probably would have had Barbara not been sleeping soundly beside her.

The other girl stirs regardless. Comes to sit up beside Trixie.

"Out, now. I'll stop making small talk at twenty past, then he's your problem," 

Patsy appears back down the stairs, standing at the doorframe with her arms folded tight. She glares at the tall blonde boy standing in her lounge, rolling her eyes as he looks indignantly at his watch.

"What do you even want from her? To give her another lecture? Think for yourself, Clarence,"

"It isn't like that," he insists, digging his hands into the pockets of his sharply pressed suit trousers.

"I know what your old man's up to. Trixie's told me," 

"Why does she even come here so often? What have you got against her?" 

"Because I treat her like a human. As a friend. Not property," 

Clarence sighs.

"Look, Patience-"

"Patsy,"

"Patsy. Our father-"

"Your father is a horrendous man. Pass that on from me, will you? The expectations he holds of Trixie are sickening. Makes me glad I never see mine," 

"For good reason, given that,"

"Perhaps, Clarence, if you worried more about your own life than that of others-"

"I'm here to offer an olive branch, if you must know. If Beatrix torches it, that's her own undoing. At least I will have offered,"

"Empty gestures, Clarence. I've seen enough to recognise them," she steps forwards, matching Clarence's height almost perfectly, her stance unwavering.

"Not empty. She's my little sister, after all,"

"Let me tell you this now, and tell you this once. If any harm comes to her, anymore than what she's inflicted herself, on your head be it. I don't care who your father is, or what he has. If Trixie gets hurt, there will be consequence,"

Footsteps on the stairs cause Patsy to step back, turning to see Trixie behind her. She looks fresh, though the slight purple beneath her eyes tells the tale of the early morning. There are still curls in her hair, somehow, topped up with Patsy's lacquer.

"I had an awful fight with my mascara this morning, can you tell?" Trixie smiles at Patsy, still pulling on a heel, before she catches sight of Clarence in the lounge. Her face falls. Patsy reaches out a hand, squeezing the top of her arm.

"I'm always here," whispers Patsy.

Trixie nods, swallowing the tears that have formed. 

  
  


Trixie sits in the passenger seat of Clarence's car, hands folded neatly in her lap, picking slightly at already chipped ruby red nail varnish.

"Why are you here?" 

"I spoke to father on the telephone," he sighs, pulling out of Patsy's driveway.

"Let me guess, you're here on daddy's orders to win me over?" Trixie asks, looking idly out of the windscreen.

"No. Not at all," 

"So why, then? You've seemed rather content away with your wife-"

"Fiancee," he sighs, focusing entirely on the road, "and either way, her and I have been talking," 

"Oh, heavens, she's not in the family way is she?" 

"Not yet," he replies.

"I will throw up all over your posh leather seats," says Trixie, furrowing her eyebrows at him.

"Either way," he says quickly, "we think it would be best if you took up residence in our spare room, for the time being," 

Trixie looks at him, sculpted eyebrows raised.

"Entirely  _ not  _ where I thought this was headed," 

"I'm not a monster, Trixie," he says, softly, "I know what he's like. I know what  _ they're  _ like," 

"Awful," nods Trixie.

Clarence takes a sharp breath in. Pulls the car over in the small residential area they're in, braces himself.

"They've found someone, Trixie," he says, "the marriage bureau. For you," 

"Oh?" Trixie's heart pounds at her ribs, adrenaline suddenly flooding through her. 

Clarence reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. Producing a photograph of a man, redheaded and rather beguiling, when all's said and done. Trixie takes it, looking it over for a moment.

"Well. He's no Rock Hudson, but- I can't imagine how he has any need for-"

"He has a child. He's wealthy, though. A rather nice doctor. All things considered, Trixie, he's better than he could be," 

"Right. A _child_. Wonderful. So not _only_ am I stuck with one person I don't want, I get a miniature version too!"

"Trixie-"

"No, Clarence. You don't get to defend  _ any  _ of this," 

Trixie thrusts the photograph back into his hands, folding her arms as she returns her gaze back out of the window. 

"Keep it. Mull things over," he says, slipping it into the top of her handbag before turning the keys in the ignition. 

"What's his name?" She asks shyly after a moment of silence down the road.

"Christopher Dockerill," Clarence answers.

"He looks nice, doesn't he?" There's a certain element of fear to Trixie's voice, though she tries to shake it away.

"He does. Some of the men you see around- Trixie, you've certainly not gotten the short straw here," 

"Will I have to meet him?" 

"His telephone number is on the back of the photograph. It's up to you, but- I think you should," 

Trixie nods.

"I'll never hear the end of it if I don't, will I?"

"Probably not," Clarence sighs.

Trixie turns her attention back to the outside world passing the window. 

  
  


Barbara enters the house, arriving in the lounge to find Tom waiting for her.

"Tom? You should- you should be in bed," she says. He approaches her, wrapping his arms around her, hands brushing the part of her spine still burdened with that damned dull ache.

"They've given me a night off," he says, licking his lips slightly as he looks down at her. His hand takes her jaw, lifting her face as he plants a rough kiss to her lips. She tenses.

"Oh, right," 

"Are you not pleased? We never get time together anymore," he says as he pulls back.

"Yes, I am- of course I am," 

"Good. As you should be," he smirks, making an advance towards her neck with his lips. "New perfume?" 

Barbara's heart drops. She hadn't considered that a night and morning in the embrace of a woman who practically bathes in fine French perfume may give her away.

"One of the girls," she says, hastily, "I was- I tried one of theirs, seeing if I liked it," 

"I like it. That's a woman who knows what a man wants," he pats her back as he lets her go, "I used to know what that felt like,"

"Used to?" Barbara asks coyly. He turns back to face her.

"Yes," he replies, "unless you-" 

Without thinking, she surges forwards, cupping his face in her hands, letting her lips meet his. Her heart pounds at her ribs, with the rhythmic fashion of the alarm bells she should be taking heed of. 

She ignores them. Lets him take control, lets him take her in his arms. He's bashful, once again a young lad newly married with his moonlight bride. The lines between lust and love blur, tangle together like Barbara's fingers in his hair, knotted and twisted, vague at once as she lets him take what he wants.

  
  


Then it ends. 


	7. Chapter 7

Barbara rouses awake, her head resting atop Tom's chest, his hand painfully rested on her bare hip.

He stirs.

Tightens his grip on her body briefly.

"Morning, you," 

She shuffles slightly, wrapping the covers over herself.

"What was all that about, then?" he asks.

"Hm?"Barbara murmurs vaguely, still sleepy.

"You've barely looked at me for weeks, and- well,"

"We're married, aren't we?" Barbara sighs.

"At least you've finally remembered," 

The dull ache. There it is again. She lets it consume her.

  
  


_"Good afternoon? Who's speaking please?"_

"Is this- is this Christopher Dockerill?" Trixie is hesitant, clutching the telephone in a nervous death grip.

 _"That would be me, yes,"_

"Well- good afternoon, it's," 

_"Say, you wouldn't be the wonderful young woman I've been paired with, would you?"_

"That would be me," 

_"Oh, brilliant! I'm so glad you've called, Beatrix,"_

"Everyone calls me Trixie, normally," 

_"No problem. So, Trixie, to what do I owe the pleasure?"_

"I'm afraid I'm not in need of a teeth cleaning or a wisdom tooth extraction," she twirls the cord of the telephone around her finger absentmindedly.

Christopher laughs, not dry like her father or mocking like her brother. Sweet, genuinely joyful.

 _"No, that wouldn't be the most exhilarating of dates. How does a night French cuisine sound?"_

"Wonderful, actually," 

Trixie lets a smile creep across her lips. 

Turns out, Christopher Andrew Dockerill, renowned doctor and dental hygienist, is not the root of all evil. 

Trixie lets minutes melt away as she laughs with him, learns that his daughter, Alexandra, newly seven yet going on seventeen, is scared of spiders and the creaky floorboard in the hallway of her father's rather large, rather empty home. Hears anecdotes of his time as a doctor, learns how he came to be the sole carer of his little girl, discovers that he truly isn't the worst of the bunch. 

Allows him to invite her out that night, sealing the deal with a promise to be at her door at eight sharp, with an agreement of Babycham and a meal. 

  
  


"I can't believe you're actually doing it," says Patsy as she maneuvers through the busy streets, hellbent on fighting against the midday traffic.

"Me either," says Trixie, blowing smoke out of the window, "it isn't _exactly_ what I want, but I'll never hear the end of it if I don't at least try," 

"You could always say it didn't work,"

"Hm," replies Trixie, "he isn't awful, though,"

"I thought I was the only redhead you needed," sighs Patsy.

"Do I not have room for two?"

"You shouldn't."

"Perhaps I don't," 

The car turns down the familiar street, coming to a stop outside the house with the painted red door. Trixie steps out of the car, approaching the house.

Taps her knuckles against the wood.

Tom answers.

"Is Barbara in?" Trixie asks.

"No. She isn't."

The breeze from the slammed door hits her face instantly.

  
  


Patsy studies her face as she slides back into the car.

"What on earth was that?" she asks.

"I don't know. It was weird, that's for definite." 

She watches the curtain twitch on the second floor.

"Who was it?" Barbara appears as she heads down the stairs, straightening her cardigan over her shoulders.

"Nobody." he replies.

"It was Trixie. I saw out of the bedroom window." 

Tom turns, taking his hand back off the door handle. 

"Why do you care?" he says, almost mockingly. 

"She's a friend?" 

Tom huffs, turning his attention to a neat white envelope on the door mat. He picks it up, scanning the front.

"It's yours." he thrusts it towards her. Watches her as she opens it carefully and skims over the contents.

"It's the dress shop I applied to! They're offering me a job there!" she smiles at him, though it isn't returned.

"I shall be making my _own_ dinners from now on, then?" he sneers at her. Barbara tuts, tucking the letter into the pocket of her dress.

"It wouldn't kill you, Tom." 

"No. Not _me."_

Barbara finishes her descent down the stairs, crossing through to the lounge. Tom follows.

"You _said_ you wanted me to find work." 

"I did _not!"_ he replies

"Yes, you did. Plenty of women have jobs nowadays." 

"Have these new _friends_ of yours put you up to this?" 

"No, they-"

Tom makes an advance, gripping tight to her collar at the nape of her neck.

"I don't like this new Barbara. The one who thinks she can talk to me however she wants." 

Barbara bites her cheek, whimpering slightly as his grip tightens. 

"It'll be extra money, Tom. Perhaps you can pick your rugby back up." she says, looking up into angry eyes, desperate to sweeten him.

"We don't _need_ extra money! What I need is a wife who doesn't care more about her wants than _our_ needs." 

"It's not about us though, is it? It's about you! It's _always_ about you!" she shouts back at him. Regret hits her immediately as his eyes narrow. 

His grip finally leaves the back of her neck as she hits the wall, narrowly avoiding the framed picture of Tom in his uniform.

"You really need to learn when to _button it_." he says as she crumples to the floor. 

"I thought you'd be pleased, Tom." she says, her voice a terrified whisper.

"Do I _look_ pleased?" 

  
  


Trixie bounds into _Nomads_ , occupying her and Patsy's usual seat.

"I didn't realise there were so many colours in existence." Patsy says as she drops a napkin and stirrer in front of the blonde girl. Trixie replies with a giggle.

"You only ever wear green- very '55 of you." 

"As in the year or the age?" 

" _Both._ You really ought to venture out." 

"Who would I be doing that for?" Patsy replies, placing a cigarette between her lips.

"Oh, Patsy! You don't have to dress well just for a _date."_

"Are you saying I _don't_ dress well?" 

Trixie rolls her eyes, diving into the first of one of the shopping bags on the seat beside her.

"I really feel as though the blue was the right choice, you know. The pale pink was to die for, but it washed me out something rotten." 

Patsy raises her eyebrows, sipping her black coffee. 

"Patsy, this is _important._ " Trixie huffs.

"It is?"

"Not to you, but it is to me. A woman is _defined_ by what she wears." 

"Seems a bit- vain." 

Trixie sighs, plucking the cigarette from Patsy's fingers.

"Look around. The only thing we know about these women is what we see, but that's _important._ " Trixie taps away the ash, "That woman is wearing a string of pearls before it's even three P.M. She's either disgustingly wealthy or she has something to prove."

"Trixie, _you're_ wearing pearls."

"Daddy's money goes a long way, Patience. See here, that woman over there, chatting to the waitress, what do you get from her?" 

Patsy sighs, eyes darting to the woman in question. They dart back to Trixie. 

"She- she doesn't like- skirts?" Patsy says, taking back her cigarette. She earns another huff from Trixie.

"Slacks in the daytime? She either has _zero_ regard for her composure, or-"

"It's Valerie."

"Oh my _god,_ it is!" Trixie squeals. "What's she doing in _Nomads?"_

"Might be a case of _who,_ from the way she's chatting up that waitress."

"Patsy! You're diabolical." 

  
  


"Barbara-" Tom tries to place a hand on her knee, watching as she jumps back. She adjusts the wrapped bag of peas on her back, soothing the dull ache the best she can.

"No, Tom."

"Look, I- you just. I got annoyed with you. The way you speak to me sometimes, it-"

"You _threw me_ against the wall, Tom." She shifts, wincing slightly.

"I'm sorry."

"Not now, please. I don't care to hear it." 

He stands and heads upstairs. Barbara bites her lip to avoid the tears that threaten in her eyes.

  
  


He pulls up at ten to.

A classy Jaguar in an emerald sort of green, earning a "What's with you gingers and green?" from Valerie, who's invited herself over to Patsy's to see Trixie off and have a glass of scotch in her absence.

Trixie gives Patsy's hand one last squeeze before she slips out of the door.

"I hope me coming a little earlier isn't an inconvenience. The reservation is five past, it seemed the sensible thing to do." 

She smiles, taking him in in the slowly fading sunlight.

"No problem at all. You're lucky my lipstick didn't give me any hassle today." 

He appreciates the sarcastic kind of humour, she can tell from his expression as he pulls away. 

The restaurant is every bit as delicate and grand as the couple who enter it. Different hues of gold fill the room and Trixie can't help but look around as she's led to the table. 

"I'm glad you decided to call, Trixie." He says as their glasses are filled. She smiles at him.

"I am, too."

"Alexandra was more than delighted to head off with her aunt for the night. I think she'd like you." 

Trixie shrugs, tapping a nail against her glass.

"I don't think I've ever been much good with children." She replies, attempting to add light to it.

"Hmm. I doubt that very much, you know. Do you- do you want children?" 

"A rather forward question. Our starters haven't even arrived yet." She laughs.

"No, alright, it wasn't- it was a general-"

"I know, I know." she shrugs again, laughing a little. "I haven't ever really thought about it. Never _had_ to."

"Oh? I imagined someone as charming as yourself would have men dying at your feet." 

Trixie's gaze drops. 

Thinks about how Barbara felt in her arms.

"Not _exactly_." 

Another shrug.

"Well, I'm honoured to be in your company, even if it is just for tonight." He holds out his glass. Trixie taps her own against it.

"Would you like it to be more than tonight?" She dares to ask.

"Would _you_?" 

Trixie feels a dull ache behind her ribs. 

  
  


"No women on the scene at _all,_ Valerie?" Patsy asks, handing her a glass of amber spirit.

"Nope." Val answers quickly.

"I see, I see. No, oh, I don't know, waitresses? Perhaps a barista?" 

Val nearly chokes on her drink.

"You've officially lost it, chick."

"Maybe this waitress is a pretty young black girl, who knows? Perhaps you might- chat her up during her work hours?" 

"Shut up, will you?" 

"I saw you, Val." Patsy says with a smirk. 

"Alright, alright, leave it out." Val replies, cracking her knuckles, much to Patsy's disgust.

"I can't _believe_ you haven't told us." Patsy responds, clearly amused.

"It's nothing, Patsy. She probably ain't interested." 

"She certainly seemed it." Patsy raises an eyebrow.

"How would you know that, then?" Val asks with a huff.

"She looks at you the way every woman ever to exist has looked at me."

"Now you're taking the piss." 

"Potentially." Patsy punctuates her sentence with a sip of scotch. "But either way, she was into it." 

Val furrows her brow.

  
  


"I love that restaurant. Brilliant food and _always_ accompanied with a smile." 

"I suppose there's an endless flow of girls you can take there." Trixie says softly.

Christopher's car sits at the end of Patsy's driveway as the pair take a moment of solace. 

"No. You're the first in a long time. Certainly the most pleasant company." He replies, taking a second to look at her face as the pale moonlight illuminates it.

"Oh. Sorry."

"No need. Women just- aren't overly keen on a man with a child in tow." 

Trixie nods gently.

"Does she always live with you, then?" 

"Now, yes. Her mother turned to the bottle, a few years ago now, so Alexandra was handed to me." Christopher's tone is nonchalant, as if he's told the story of his previous lover so many times that it's muscle memory. Trixie imagines it is.

"Listen, Trixie, I really did enjoy tonight."

"So did I." She smiles. He returns the gesture.

"I'd love another night, if you would too." 

"Of course. I'll call." She says softly, before she leans across the center console, planting a gentle kiss to his freshly shaven cheek. She uses her thumb to wipe away the slight remnant of red she leaves behind before she steps out of the car. 


	8. Chapter 8

"He's a gentleman, truly." Trixie says with a smile as Patsy offers her toast the next morning. 

"No such thing." Val perches herself atop Patsy's countertop, much to the redhead's disdain.

"Really, he was. Held the door, pulled out my chair. The works." 

"Oh,  _ marriage  _ material." Val says.

"Ignore her, Trixie, she's just cynical because we've caught onto her little rendezvous." 

"Oh,  _ yes!  _ The  _ Nomads  _ waitress." Trixie smiles at Val over the rim of her teacup.

"You're just as bad as her, Trix." 

"Do tell us more!" Trixie responds. Val sighs.

"There's nothing  _ to  _ tell. She's- I mean, she's lovely. But it's not  _ going  _ anywhere."

Trixie rolls her eyes.

"You don't  _ know _ that, Valerie." Trixie says, eyes twinkling at the prospect of girly gossip.

"Do you have any plans to meet with her when she's not juggling the  _ Nomads  _ lunch rush?" Patsy asks as she chews a slice of plain buttered toast.

Val's eyes dart between them.

"Valerie  _ Dyer! _ " Trixie gasps.

"Right, yes, alright. I'm meeting her after her shift this afternoon."

Trixie squeals, nearly spilling the cup of Earl Grey all down the front of the pair of Patsy's striped pyjamas she might as well call her own.

"You  _ must  _ let us know how it goes!" She responds, truly elated.

"I might. If you let me have the last of the blackberry jam." 

"Take  _ all  _ the jam in the  _ world,  _ Val. This is  _ exciting!" _

  
  


"You look great." 

Barbara ignores him, applying a last spray of lacquer to her hair. It's growing longer by the day, she notes. Prays Tom won't notice. She likes the way it is now.

"I won't be back in time to make you your supper." She spits the words at him, though it's still quiet. Afraid. His gaze drops.

The dull ache in her back screams at her as she leaves. Less of a dull ache. It morphs each day into a stinging, a stabbing that demands attention.

The phone rings as she double checks the contents of her handbag. She lets it call out a few times before she answers.

" _ Barbara?" _

Trixie's dulcet tones flood through the receiver. Barbara holds her breath before she hangs up, leaving the phone off of its stand in case she tries again.

  
  


"Anything?" Patsy appears behind Trixie as the blonde grips the receiver in her hand. Trixie shakes her head.

"She was there, Patsy. I could hear her, though she didn't speak, but I know it was her." 

Patsy nods, leaning against the doorframe.

"Strange."

"Should we head over there?" Trixie asks, barely meeting Patsy's eyes.

"Definitely not, chick." Val appears down the stairs. "If Tom's angry with her it'll only make it worse." 

"She's our  _ friend, _ Valerie." Trixie insists.

"I know. So we need to act in a way that'll keep her safe." 

"She  _ isn't safe! _ " Trixie chokes out, close to tears. "She's stuck there, with a horrible man who does all manner of ghastly things to her on the basis of a hair out of place."

Val places a hand on Trixie's arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I know, chick, I know. We have to bide our time. If he snaps on account of us, you'll never forgive yourself. I know I wouldn't." 

Trixie nods.

"Val's right. Sometimes when faced with immeasurable cruelty, you must simply wait it out and act once an Achilles heel presents itself." Patsy speaks with an experienced tone.

"Barbara's tough. She's got this." Val says.

  
  


"Loitering with intent, are we?" 

Val looks up, meeting hazel eyes, paired with a kind smile. The voice that summons her is rich, drenched with honey and the warm type of sunlight you only catch once in a rare breeze.

"Suppose so. What's my punishment?" 

The other girl laughs.

"Fish and chips, on you." 

"Guilty as charged, then." 

August brings soft sunshine and warm air, perfect for the pair occupying a bench together on the pier, a grease covered sheet of newspaper atop both of their laps, full of golden brown chips.

"So, what brings a stunner like yourself to work in a little coffee bar?" 

"If my mother asks, I'm looking to get myself into midwifery. It's why I came here." Lucille answers, looking out across the water.

"Right. Where are you from again?" 

"Jamaica."

"Never been. I'd burn to a crisp, given the fact I've as much colour as the paper these chips are on." 

Lucille lets out a little giggle, sending Val's heart into a flutter.

"It's nice. This kind of sunshine is our winter, mind. But I do love it." 

"Do you  _ miss _ it?" 

Lucille shrugs, biting another chip in half.

"Sometimes. My little flat gets awfully boring at times. I'm the oldest of seven, you see, four girls, myself included and three boys. Never a moment of peace back home." 

"I thought three sisters was bad." Val exclaims, smirking as she grabs a chip from Lucille's paper. 

"Three sisters?" Lucille tilts her head a little.

"Yeah. There's Margot, the eldest, then there's Dorothy and Flora, the twins in the middle, and I'm the youngest." 

"The baby of the family." Lucille says with a grin.

"Still the tallest, mind. My gran says that my Pop's height must have missed the other three." 

They sit for a moment, revelling in the warmth.

"Do you talk to them often?" Lucille asks softly.

"Not really. Margot's got four littluns of her own, though I've only met the one. Dorothy's over in the States, though don't ask what for, Flora's got a dress shop on the high street and I run my little pub." Val bites a chip in half. "What about yours?" 

Lucille sighs.

"They write, though it's only a letter every few months, since postage is so expensive from over there. The last I heard from them was- May. I think." 

"Right."

"They always write for Christmas, I know that much at least. I don't mind it, really. They're always asking if I have a gentleman friend." 

"Always a no when my gran asks  _ me  _ that."

"I tell them I'm focussing on my studies, or just my job."

"Then you get told you're being left on the shelf." 

They speak in sync, falling into laughter as they realise.

"What a bloody nightmare, eh, chick?" Val says as the giggles subside.

" _ This  _ isn't, though. This is anything but." 

  
  


"Fish and chips on the pier isn't the height of romance, Pats." Val shrugs as she sips a pint.

"It's a start." Patsy replies, lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah, yeah, alright." 

"You like her don't you?" 

"No answer."

" _ Valerie _ . You've fallen worse than the time I took a head first trip down the  _ Violet _ 's stairs." 

Valerie giggles at the memory.

"Maybe. Potentially."

A pause.

"Yeah. You're right. She's brilliant." 

They sit for a moment, sipping cider and puffing away nicotine. Their gaze turns to the blonde girl standing by the window, nervously biting at the side of her thumb.

"She isn't coming." Patsy says.

"She  _ might _ ." 

"Normally calls, doesn't she?" Val asks. Patsy glares at her.

"Yes. Exactly." Trixie's voice is almost a whisper.

"She'll be alright." Patsy says gently.

"Yeah. Don't worry too much, chick." 

"You look shattered, Trix. Would you rather head off home?" 

Trixie shrugs. Patsy pulls Trixie's coat from the chair she left it on before she approaches the girl at the window, draping it over her shoulders.

"Come on. We can phone again in the morning." 

Patsy shoots a glance towards Val, who simply nods at her.

_ "Call me."  _ She whispers. Patsy nods.

  
  


"Cat got her tongue?" 

Tom laughs at the remark from his boss, watching as Barbara fidgets nervously. 

"Apparently so." Tom replies.

"At least she's not giving you grief." He quips as Ella passes a glass over to Tom, filled with a generous amount of expensive whiskey. "Do you know why I invited you tonight, Tom?" 

"Unofficial official business?" He places a possessive hand just above Barbara's knee.

"Precisely." He replies, holding a cigar loosely between nicotine stained fingers. "I'm impressed with your recent arrest records. Your dedication to the force is admirable." 

"What are you saying, Sir?" 

"The Chief Inspector job is yours, if you want it?" 

Ella clears her throat from her armchair.

"Barbara, there's a fresh vanilla chiffon in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd like to help me plate some up?" 

Barbara nearly jumps at the chance to head to the kitchen with Ella. 

"You're friends with our Trixie, aren't you?" 

Barbara nods timidly. 

"Here's hoping you can talk some sense into her." 

"I don't think she needs it. Not  _ really. _ " Barbara insists, handing a plate to Ella.

"She's still a silly little girl with a head full of dreams." 

Barbara sighs.

Thinks about how Trixie felt pressed close against her chest.

"She knows what she wants, though." Barbara replies. Ella nods.

"I suppose. Still, perhaps you can teach her a thing or two about marriage." 

Barbara turns around as a scoff comes from behind her. Trixie stands in the doorway, arms folded.

"So long as my suitor doesn't take anu advice from  _ that  _ piece of work." She says, gesturing to Tom out in the parlour.

"Trixie! That's Barbara's husband you're talking about." 

Barbara's gaze hits the floor as she twists her engagement ring around her finger. Trixie lets out a laugh.

"If only you knew." 

"What does that mean?" Ella grips the cake knife in her hand.

"It  _ means-" _

"Just leave it." Barbara interjects. "Tom is- he's  _ fine." _

Trixie moves to protest, thwarted by Barbara brushing past her to leave the kitchen.

"When will you learn, Trixie?" 


	9. Chapter 9

"Barbara! Only a week and a half in and you've achieved your  _ first  _ sale on your own!" 

"I really couldn't have done it without your help, Flora." Barbara shuffles the notes, righting them in her hand as they slide into the drawer of the till.

"Nonsense. You're a natural. Mrs Reeves seemed totally at ease with you."

The woman in question had taken one look at herself in the mirror and subsequently broken down, insisting that her daughter's wedding wasn't  _ that  _ important, that she could miss out and avoid the dress altogether.

Barbara supplied tea and a delicately folded hanky, ensuring the woman was soothed before she offered advice from her albeit limited knowledge. Nevertheless, Mariam Reeves left with a bag hanging off of her arm and Barbara was left with a rather sweet tip in her cardi pocket. 

"It was nothing, really." Barbara offers a smile.

"You can head off early if you'd like, poppet."

Barbara's brow furrows as she thinks of the man at home.

"I think I'd prefer to help close up, if that's alright." 

Flora nods before she heads off into the back of the shop, leaving Barbara to sort through a brand new delivery of silks.

The bell announces the arrival of another customer.

"I'll be with you in just a moment!" Barbara chimes from below the counter, shuffling through the boxes. 

"Barbara?" 

"Trixie?" 

Barbara appears from behind the counter, the blonde girl coming into view. 

"Long time no see." Trixie says, eyes dating between the dresses on display. 

Barbara does an awkward nod.

"I need a going out dress. Something that compliments the figure, sophisticated but not boring." Trixie announces.

"For a night out?" Barbara asks, scribbling in her notebook. 

"No." Trixie pauses as she runs her fingertips across a silky black number. "For a date."

Barbara winces as her body suddenly aches with the words.

"Look, Barbara, I hate to do this, especially here, but it's been a week. More than, in fact." Trixie says as Barbara rummages through racks.

"I  _ am  _ working now, Trixie."

"Not even a call?" 

No answer.

"You were at my house, Barbara, and then you just completely disappeared."

"Well-"

"Is it him? Has he- again?" 

"Trixie. Please. I'm at work." Barbara thrusts a hanger across to her, a silky mauve number hung upon it.

Trixie nods.

Only a few moments later, Barbara stands behind Trixie, pulling the zip of the dress all the way up her back. She is unavoidable, her perfume wrapping around Barbara like a hug.

Though it's more like a vice at present. A floral chokehold that keeps Barbara trapped, screams at her to run yet in the same breath begs her to stay. 

Trixie looks at herself in the tall mirror.

"It suits you." 

"Do you think so? Not my usual choice." 

Barbara swallows the lump in her throat.

_ Ignores the nagging thought of Trixie nestled into her side, their breaths and heartbeats synced. _

"Absolutely. You'll blow him away." 

She smiles. Trixie returns the gesture.

  
  


"No, Patsy, what I'm saying is that by  _ definition  _ it is."

"Cereal is not soup, Valerie, I refuse to acknowledge this." 

Trixie bursts through the door of Val's apartment, causing both women to turn their heads. 

"Alright, chick?" Val smiles, pleased to see an end to the little debate. 

Trixie nods, clearly burdened. She places the bag from the dress shop onto the nearest armchair before she perches on it herself.

"I've seen Barbara." 

"Did you go over there?' Patsy asks, swirling the dregs of the tea in her cup.

Trixie shakes her head.

"She was in the dress shop," Trixie announces, "as a sales assistant." 

"Barbara working for my Floss?" Val furrows her brow. Trixie nods again.

"She barely spoke to me, though she did help me with the dress for Christopher tonight." 

"Does she seem-" Patsy gestures ambiguously.

"She isn't herself. Poor girl looks like she's had an hour of sleep since we saw her last." 

Trixie sighs, waiting a moment, mulling things over.

"Tom got his promotion." 

"How do you know?" Val asks.

"He was at my house, the night Patsy and I left the  _ Rose  _ early." 

Patsy raises her eyebrows.

"Was she with him?" 

A nervous nod.

"She looked positively petrified. There was- a bit of a- a row. Not really, but-"

"How do you mean?" Patsy presses.

"My mother tried to make a fool of me, telling Barbara she ought to show me how to be a  _ civilised married woman _ , whatever that means." Trixie folds her arms, hugging her chest.

"To which you replied-?" 

"Told her something to the effect of preferring to die alone than marry a piece of work like Tom Hereward." 

Patsy sighs, rolling her eyes slightly.

"You didn't."

"Yes, Valerie, I did." Trixie huffs. "I'm sick of all of this."

"Trixie, I get that, I do, but-"

"No you don't. You simply swanned off and opened your bar because nobody expected anything off of you." Trixie's eyes dart between the pair. "Neither of you have the slightest idea what it's like. You don't get to pull the morality card here."

"Trixie, you realise that by confronting Tom like that you've probably put Barbara right in the shit?" Val adds.

"I didn't confront  _ him. _ " 

"You think he didn't hear? Or that your mother hasn't gone whispering about it? Word travels, Trixie." 

Trixie's gaze hits the floor.

_ Thinks of Barbara's fingertips brushing her spine as she pulled the zip. _

"Do you think he would have-" Trixie can't finish. Swallows the lump in her throat. "Because of me?" 

Patsy shrugs.

"Here's hoping he hasn't." 

"Good evening, you." Christopher smiles as Trixie approaches him from her front door, having bid her parents goodbye and told them not to expect her.

"At least somebody's made an effort." Trixie says with a light laugh.

"Couldn't let you show me up, could I?" Christopher says, holding open the car door. 

"Alexandra will be fast asleep by the time we get there. I thought perhaps we could head out and see  _ Love Me Tender  _ first?" 

Trixie nods.

"Does she know?" Trixie asks gently.

"Know? She's constantly begging me to go out and be Prince Charming, rescue a damsel in distress." 

Trixie lifts an eyebrow.

"Not that you are one. No, I meant-"

Trixie giggles as Christopher scrambles.

"I know what you meant. Young girls are full of stories." Trixie smiles a little.

"I'm sure she'd love to meet you." Christopher suggests.

"Christopher, no. I can't. I couldn't." Trixie pauses. "I'd hate for my presence to cause any upset."

"I assure you that it wouldn't." 

"I wouldn't consider myself a role model, not at all." Trixie adds.

"Lucky I'm not asking you to be one, then. Simply meet her, perhaps grab an ice cream sundae." Christopher glances between Trixie and the road. The woman in the passenger seat sits stiffly. "Perhaps just mull it over, once we've been at this a bit longer."

Trixie nods.

"Of course." 

"I can see you blushing." Christopher laughs as they leave the cinema arm in arm. "The charms of Elvis Presley too much to handle?" 

Trixie laughs lightly.

"Debra Paget in that floral number." Trixie sighs. "Her waistline was to die for." 

Trixie sighs.

_ Thinks of her hands wrapped tight around Barbara's waist. _

_ The floral summer dress that smells like her. _

"Trust you to watch Presley's film debut and come out with a comment about  _ fashion. _ " Christopher replies with a smile.

"What? He doesn't do anything for me." 

They stand in the street. Trixie turns to face him, holding the lapels of his coat.

"He looks nothing like you, for a start." She smirks.

"Rather cheeky of you, Beatrix." He smiles.

"What can I say?" She laughs.

"Say it with a bottle of red." 

"You have yourself a deal." She replies with a grin.

"Won again? Trixie, surely you're hiding cards under the table?"

Trixie smiles as Christopher takes her cards, shuffling them back into the pack.

"Thank you for tonight, Christopher."

"My pleasure. You're brilliant company." He says, dealing the freshly shuffled pack between them.

"Could say the same to you." She smiles, draining her glass.

"How about another?" He suggests. Trixie nods.

"You'll never catch me saying no to a drink." 

"Of course. No looking at my cards while I'm gone, mind." 

He stands and leaves. 

Trixie settles into Christopher's leather sofa, smoothing her skirt over her knees. 

Behind her, the padding of soft footsteps, the adjustment of wooden floorboards.

"I like your dress." 

A tiny voice, sleepy yet curious.

Trixie stiffens at the sound of her voice, turning to smile at her gently. 

"Hello, sweetie." 

The girl perches on the adjacent armchair, fidgeting with the hem of her pyjama shirt.

"You must be Alexandra."

The girl nods at her.

"You're pretty. Are you my daddy's girlfriend?" 

Trixie almost flinches at the word. 

"Well- no. We're just friends. He's a wonderful man, you're a very lucky little girl to have him." Trixie twists one of her rings around her finger.

Alexandra's eyes fixate on the string of pearls around Trixie's neck. 

"You're nice. I like you."

"I like you too." Trixie smiles warmly at the little girl who edges ever closer, reaching out a gentle hand to brush the pearls lying over Trixie's collarbone. 

"You look like the princess in my storybook." 

Trixie waits for a moment. 

"Do you want to try them on?" She asks.

Wary. Absolutely terrified, yet somehow comforting. 

Alexandra can't nod quickly enough. Trixie reaches to unclasp the pearls from her own neck, wondering what on God's green earth is taking Christopher so long to fetch a bottle of red.Trixie holds the pearls around Alexandra's neck, brushing away dark blonde hair as lightly as she can. The girl squeals a little as Trixie adjusts the necklace. 

"There you are. I think they look better on you than they do me!" 

Alexandra giggles, admiring the pearls in the slight lamplight. 

It is then that Christopher appears, clearing his throat from the doorway. 

"Oh dear. Being harassed by my second-in-command?" He says with a light smile. 

"Look!" Alexandra says, running to her father, holding the small white pearls between tiny fingertips. 

"I see Trixie's already working her magic." 

"I never say no to making a new friend, do I?" She smiles gently, looking at the small figure who looks even tinier beside her father. 

"Well, your new friend is supposed to be in bed!" Christopher places the wine onto the side before scooping Alexandra up, placing her over his shoulder. She giggles. 

Trixie's heart sinks. Unexplainably so, yet painful. Something deep that would bring tears to her eyes if she wasn't on a second date in expensive mascara. 

"Say goodnight, Ally." Christopher says as he crosses the room, Alexandra still firmly in his arms. 

"Goodnight!" 

Trixie sighs as they both head upstairs.

Christopher reappears a moment later, though not before a symphony of giggles has trailed down the stairs and hit Trixie like a ton of bricks.

"I think I'll head off home now. It's late, and if I've disturbed little Alexandra." She says, standing with her coat over her arm.

"Trixie, really, it wasn't you. She's a light sleeper." He smiles at her from the doorway.

"Really, it's not a problem. Patsy and Valerie will probably be expecting me." She offers a smile back. "Goodnight, Christopher. Thank you. For everything." 

"Safe travels, Trixie. Let me know when you get back."

Trixie nods. 

"Of course." 

  
  


"Will you behave for once, Valerie Elizabeth?" Patsy asks as Val lays her head in her lap, causing Patsy to have to move her book. 

"This is behaving for me."

They return to their separate distractions, sitting in a soothing silence. 

The door suddenly echoes out a frantic pounding, frequent bangs that ring out around the flat.

"Jesus Christ!" Val shouts, leaping out of Patsy's lap. "Yes, alright, I'm coming." 

Barbara. 

Val tries to wilfully ignore the blood covering the top of her dress.

It's a lot to ignore. 


	10. Chapter 10

Trixie takes her time heading back to Val's. 

Thinks about Christopher, the bright smile, the light laughs.

The same bubbly feeling fills her chest, the one she felt with Barbara in her arms, soft and gentle and safe.

But she can't feel that way.

Not with Barbara.

There is a man with open arms and a gap in his heart, a Trixie-shaped gap she could fill so easily.

Alexandra has her pearls.

She'll have to see him again. Though, they're not necessarily important, on the more humble side of her jewelry box. Perhaps she's just making excuses for a third date. 

She rounds the corner, seeing the  _ Rose and Thorns  _ come into view. Letting out a sigh, her eyes drift upwards, seeing the light on in Val's flat.

  
  


Patsy takes her coat from the hook as Barbara enters the flat.

"Patsy?" Her voice cracks as she asks, Valerie heading to the kitchen to fetch a cloth.

"That's it, I'm going over there."

"Patsy-" Val starts.

"That bastard is  _ not _ getting away with it this time." 

" _ Right.  _ Can we keep our bloody heads for two seconds?" Val says firmly, summoning Barbara to sit down. Patsy freezes before she nods, replacing her coat. 

"Chin up, chick." Val soothes, dabbing at the blood slowly drying around Barbara's nose. "Sorry, sorry, I know." She says as the younger girl winces.

"What happened?" Patsy asks, sitting on the arm of the sofa across from Barbara, flexing her fingers. 

Barbara shakes her head. Pushes Val away slightly. Val nods, taking the hint, folding the cloth in her hand. 

"I can't go home." She whispers. "Please don't make me go home." 

"You aren't going  _ anywhere,  _ Babs." Patsy moves to place a hand on the small of Barbara's back, though she freezes, as if the young girl is made of glass, ready to shatter away into nothing at the slightest move. Patsy folds her hands back into her lap.

"I want to leave him." 

"Of course, chick. We're here, don't you worry." Val says softly, taking Barbara's hand as gently as she can.

"You're never going to guess who I've ended up meeting tonight!" Trixie chimes as she enters the flat.

The three women look up at her from the sofa. Bile rises in her throat.

"Barbara?" 

Trixie's handbag hits the floor.

"It's okay, Trix." Barbara utters, her gaze hitting the floor. 

"Is this  _ him? _ " She asks, tone drenched in anger.

Barbara nods.

"I've already talked Patsy down, don't you dare. At least she stands a chance." Val warns. Trixie nods, coming to perch on the adjacent armchair. 

"Am I alright to get another look at you, chick? We need to check there's nothing major."

Barbara nods weakly, letting Valerie tilt her chin to the light.

"It's probably better than it looks."

"Hm." Val dabs at another spot of crimson. "I don't like the look of that eye." 

Patsy stands, restless, pacing slightly around the living room. 

"He just- he was really angry." Barbara says softly.

"I can tell. Still, I don't think there's anything major. Might just need some panstick when you head out for a couple of weeks." Val says, wiping at the blood drying on Barbara's cheek. She winces again, tears shining in terrified eyes. Patsy heads for her coat again.

"No, that's it, I've had enough." She shrugs it onto her shoulders. "It doesn't concern me who he is. He can't do this." 

"Patsy." Trixie stands, making some sort of advance to stop her.

"Don't wait up for me." She says, pulling her keys from her pocket as she leaves. 

  
  


She pulls the keys from the ignition, squeezing them in her hand for a second. The painted red door looms to her left, his shiny Morris Minor parked neatly in the drive. An illusion of normalcy, a picture that could almost convince the world that the man within was kind, that he was sweet, that he hadn't sent his wife running, covered in crimson and salty tears. There's a moment of consideration.

Then, she's pounding a fist against it. Relentless. 

"Hello?" Tom answers, taking in the tall frame in front of him. Unlike Barbara, Patsy more than matches his height.

She pushes her weight against the door, allowing herself into the house. 

A picture frame lies discarded, shattered, on the floor of the parlour, it's contents face down.

"Who the  _ bloody hell _ are you?" Tom asks. Patsy folds her arms, perching on the arm of the sofa.

"More to the point, who do you  _ think  _ you are?" She asks, glaring at him.

"One of Barbara's minions? What's she said?" 

"She doesn't  _ need  _ to say anything. The black eyes speak for themselves." 

Tom rolls his eyes. Rubs his slowly swelling knuckles.

"Do you think she'll be alright?" Barbara asks, shrugging off her cardigan, not daring to lift her gaze, unable to see herself in the mirror above the sink. Trixie moves behind her gently, taking the zip of her dress. Barbara flinches under her touch, Trixie's fingertips feeling like red hot needles as they brush against her. 

"Patsy's always alright." Val responds from where she stands in the hall, just shy of the doorway.

"Barbara-" Trixie recoils at the canvas of purple across Barbara's shoulder blades.

Barbara simply shakes her head, shrugging on the pyjama shirt that Val has sourced for her.

"What if- Tom- he-" Barbara's eyes dart between the pair. 

"Don't you worry yourself, chick. I think we're all in need of a good strong cup of tea." Val leans against the doorway as Barbara discards the dress, the one holding so many reminders.

"Forget tea, Valerie." Trixie says, holding tight as Barbara's hand wanders into her own.

"Course." 

"Right. She's off dragging my name through the mud?"

"You've done that without any help, Tom! She's with one of our mutual friends being cleaned up, right this moment, because  _ you  _ aren't enough of a man to keep your  _ bloody  _ hands off of her." 

"It isn't like that."

"From where I'm standing it is." Patsy spits, rising from where she's sitting.

"Where's that, then?" Tom spits back.

"Opposite a man with his wife's blood on his hands."

"You can't  _ do  _ anything. I'm with the police." He says, consciously scraping a patch of scarlet from his knuckle. 

"Bunch of wife beaters, aren't you? They'd probably make you employee of the month." She scoffs.

"What do you want?" 

"For you to leave Barbara the _ hell  _ alone." She says, approaching him. "Finalise a divorce, pay her a settlement, then get away from her. For good." 

"You can't  _ make _ me do anything." He responds, laughing slightly. Patsy takes another step.

"God, you really don't have a single shred of self respect, do you? I can smell it on you from here." 

"Why are you here? You're trespassing." Tom says.

"You aren't in a position to spout legal jargon, not now." Patsy insists. "I'm serious, Tom. Leave her." 

He huffs, rubbing his chin, the stubble causing a staticy sound.

"I'll- contact my solicitor in the morning." He sighs.

"You'd better." She replies. "You wouldn't like to find out how a Mount responds to a broken deal." 

Tom scoffs.

"I shall be round in the afternoon, to ensure your end of the deal is in motion."

"My  _ end?  _ What's your end, then?" Tom asks as Patsy heads for the door.

"Firstly, I ensure that the vase over there isn't going straight across your head, and secondly, I don't destroy your entire career, shiny new promotion included. Thirdly? I show your wife that she deserves more than being thrown around like a half-deflated rugby ball. A rather generous deal, if I may say so myself." 

She barges past him, heading out of the front door. 

"We can all bunk in. I'll take the couch if I need to." Val says, gently pulling the door of the spare room closed. Trixie nods. "I think we all need each other tonight." 

The blonde pauses, looking up at Val for just a moment. Wordlessly, the brunette wraps her in a tight hug.

"How about another glass of that scotch?" 

Patsy's keys are slammed onto the side table, her coat replaced on the coat hook and a glass of scotch pressed tight into her hand before either of them can respond.

"She's asleep." Val says, ignoring the slight tremor of Patsy's hand. 

"I didn't hit him, before you start." Patsy says.

"Patsy, it was a bit- don't you think?" Trixie asks.

"What? To defend my friend after she turned up here in that state? I wouldn't exactly say it was an overreaction." 

Her tone is the bitterest Trixie has ever heard it, sharp and short, cutting through the air like a blade fresh from the grindstone

"What if you'd have been hurt?" Val dares to ask, rolling a custard cream around in her fingertips. Patsy scoffs.

"He's a solid five foot seven and built like a goose feather. I was quite safe." 

"Barbara wasn't." Trixie adds. 

Patsy huffs.

"Exactly. Rather me than her. She won't be seeing him again, that's for sure." 

"What did you say to him?" Trixie asks.

"Exactly what I thought. Told him I'll burn his life down to the ground if he doesn't keep as far away from her as he can." Patsy swirls the amber liquid in her glass.

"Right. Yeah. I doubt his peeler pals are going to let that one happen." Val responds.

"Newly appointed Metropolitan Chief Inspector outed for his violence towards women? That's a scandal." Patsy says. 

"No, it's like saying the sky is blue." Trixie retorts, biting a digestive in half. 

"Like you'd know." Patsy replies, without thinking. Trixie's face acts as a stark reminder. "Bloody hell, Trix, of course. Sorry." 

Trixie shrugs.

"It's been a while, for him at least. Though it really isn't a shocking revelation, by any stretch." She replies, softly. She leans herself into Patsy's side, head on her shoulder. Trixie takes hold of Patsy's hand, stopping its tremor as she grips it in her own.

"What are we going to do, Pats?" 

  
  


Trixie observes herself in the mirror, pin curls haphazardly fixed underneath silk. Barbara stirs in the bed behind her and Trixie's heart lurches.

Nobody could have predicted. Well, perhaps they could have, though the true gravity of the situation is inescapable. Not twelve hours ago was Trixie picking her dress, admiring fabrics of all weaves and shades.

Twelve short hours since Barbara's fingertips sent electricity up the length of her spine as she did up her dress. Blue eyes trailing her figure, how the fabric clung and accentuated. 

Then she left her shift. Went home. To him. 

Cut to the girl in the bed, looking positively small despite her usually lanky frame, huddled beneath the sheets. 

Trixie swallows the lump in her throat, lifting the duvet and curling up beside Barbara. Her heart screams at her to hold her close, wrap her up tight and not let go until they are both assured that she is safe forever. But if she holds on too tight, holds at all, she's afraid Barbara will feel it, and feel it in the wrong way. Trixie decides to hold her arms to her own chest, to save Barbara any more pain. 

Start again in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 10!! we made it!! though things are only just beginning 👁👄👁
> 
> thank you if you have read, left kudos or commented on this so far! this au means the world to me and seeing people enjoy it makes me so happy.
> 
> see you all on sunday for chapter eleven!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to robinsonswerehere for always leaving such detailed comments and being so so lovely💗💞💓

Barbara wakes to the pounding in her head. Trixie's soap is all that fills her senses as she presses herself close. 

"Morning." Trixie murmurs, running her fingertips along Barbara's arm. Holding the other woman close is still a daunting idea, as though she's a paper doll, ready to crumple and tear if Trixie moves in the wrong way. She lets Barbara huddle into her side, feeling the brunette shiver against her.

Below them, the early morning rush is audible, a pie and a pint the preferred breakfast for a surprising amount. It blends into the murmur of the world, the hum of engines, the chatter as people pass each other on their way to work. Trixie and Barbara simply lie in their own world, knowing that everybody else could simply disappear and they'd be satisfied still.

Val enters the room quietly, hands dug into the pocket of her slacks. 

"She's awake, I think." Trixie looks down, catching Barbara in the threshold of sleep.

"When she's awake properly, let her know I've phoned our Floss, will you?" Val says, perching on the edge of the bed. "She doesn't know the details. But she knows Barbara might need some time." 

Trixie's eyes remain fixed on the sleeping figure beside her, who manages to look relatively peaceful despite the canvas of blue and purple that presents itself given a night and a half. 

"I wish there was more we could do." Trixie says gently. Val nods.

"We're all going to need each other. Barbara needs us all more than anything. We can do that." Val smiles, watching as Trixie's fingertips continue brushing lightly across Barbara's arm.

"I know that, I just- it's going to be hard, isn't it?" 

"I won't lie to you, Trix, you know I won't." Val replies, Trixie's heart sinking. "She's got us, though."

_"Please, Tom!"_

Barbara jolts awake, fingertips clutching to Trixie's silk pyjamas. 

"It's alright, Barbara, I promise." Trixie says, as softly as she can, allowing Barbara to settle into her chest.

" 'M sorry. You must think I'm an awful mess." 

"You aren't to say that, do you hear me? Not to me, not to anybody. _You're_ the one owed an apology, Barbara." Trixie soothes, lacing their fingers together.

"I won't get one." She sighs.

"No. But you won't be facing him ever again." 

"Hopefully." Barbara says. There's a small moment of silence. "We should run away."

Trixie furrows her brow.

"What?" 

"On the run. Just us. Real nomads." 

"No Val? Patsy?" 

"You, Trixie. We could go anywhere. Home to Liverpool, down by the coast, maybe even further. Hollywood, New York." 

"It would be nice." Trixie sighs, running her fingers through Barbara's hair.

"Like a dream." 

"Just a dream, though." 

  
  


"Patsy." 

Val stands behind the woman as she sits in the window, blowing smoke away through the open glass. 

She doesn't reply.

"Look. Don't do anything stupid, yeah?" 

Patsy turns her head to face Val.

"What do you mean by that?" She asks, running her ring finger along the pad of her thumb.

"I mean- with _him._ He's still a copper." 

Patsy ashes her cigarette.

"He agreed to leave her." She replies.

"I highly doubt that." Val says.

"At grave risk of his career. He's setting it in motion as we speak, I presume." Patsy takes another long drag.

"You do realise how bloody dangerous this whole game is?" 

"Of course, I-"

"Because if you _hadn't_ remembered what we do, if he spins this, if they decide to investigate, it's over, Patsy." 

"They won't, Valerie. He's too worried about his career." 

"We're involved with two relatives of high ranking police officials. _How_ do you think that's going to end?"

"Valerie!" Patsy turns, throwing her cigarette butt out of the window. "Will you _please_ just leave it? Tom is leaving Barbara and Trixie is following her father's wishes. We're safe. Trust me on this?" 

Val folds her arms.

"You know I usually do." 

"Exactly. I know what I'm doing, Valerie."

"Do you? Because whoever you're trying to convince, it isn't working." 

"Just trust me. Please?"

"You promised we'd be safe." Val's eyes miss Patsy's.

"We _are_. We will be." 

Val shakes her head.

"Save it. I'm not bailing you out when you're in the shit over this." 

Patsy stands as Val turns to leave.

"Woah. No, absolutely not. We're in this together. This is _our_ business, not just mine." 

"Ours?"

"This was _our_ plan, Val. What we wanted to do, from the moment we became good friends." 

"Well then _why_ are you so willing to give it all up? For what, a chance to be a savior? Patsy, please, spare me the trouble." 

Val scoffs before she turns and leaves. Patsy sinks back onto the windowsill, reaching for her cigarettes once again.

"Patsy?" 

Barbara appears at the door that separates the lounge and the hall to the bedrooms, pulling the sleeves of Val's pyjama shirt over her hands.

"Babs? You should be resting." Patsy says softly. Barbara shrugs.

"I'm alright, Patsy, I am." 

She approaches the windowsill where Patsy is sitting, settling herself beside her. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I will be." Barbara draws her knees to her chest, huddling tight as the July sunshine filters through. Patsy waits for a second, ashes her cigarette.

"I spoke with Tom. Last night." 

Barbara's eyes widen as she faces Patsy.

"No, Barbara, listen. He- he's agreed to settle it and leave you." Patsy offers a little smile, reaching for Barbara's hand. Her eyes wilfully ignore the silver band stretching around one of her fingers, 

"Really?"

"Yes." Patsy replies, squeezing Barbara's fingers between her own. "You're safe, Babs, I promise." 

"Thank you, Patsy." Barbara says softly. "I couldn't do it without you." 

Patsy nods gently.

"Of course. I wouldn't miss out on helping you for the world." 

Patsy heads through the main pub area, breezing past Val as she wipes at a pool of ale on the scuffed mahogany.

"Where are you off?" She asks, though her face suggests she already knows.

"Barbara's." She says.

"Patsy, did that go in one ear and out the other?" 

Patsy pauses.

"The poor girl has one dress, which I'm sure she'd rather burn at this moment, and a pair of your pyjamas." 

"Yeah, alright. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do." 

"That's asking for trouble." Patsy jokes. Val rolls her eyes, turning her attention to one of the beer taps. "He's at work, Val. I can load the car up and be gone in half an hour tops." 

Val shrugs.

"On your head be it, I suppose." 

The spare key is buried back in the pocket of Patsy's slacks as she lets herself in. Little shards of glass still glint on the floor of the parlour, the picture moved onto the sideboard.

Barbara looks back from the glossy paper, now crumpled, arm in arm with the reason the floor is coated in glass, clad in white, even more baby-faced than Patsy knows her to be.

_Seventeen. What an awful age._

"I suppose you aren't kicking up a riot this time." 

Tom appears behind her as she observes the scene, clad in his newly updated uniform, hat under his arm. He places it on the couch.

"I don't want any trouble. Not now. Barbara needs her things." 

Tom nods.

"I spoke with my solicitor." He says, rubbing a fresh nick on his chin.

"And?"

"They need to speak with her." There's a smirk, a subtle arrogance to his voice. "They need to know why." 

Patsy huffs.

"But of course, that brings down your ivory tower rather significantly doesn't it, Officer?" 

"I'd be careful with your tone, Patsy. I'm not the only one with secrets, am I?" The smirk grows.

"What on earth would you be implying here?" 

He produces a yellowing paper, dangling it in front of her like a dog with a bone.

"I did some digging of my own, in fact. Patience Elizabeth Mount, admitted to the Fulbourn Asylum in the September of 1942, on account of social deviance." 

Patsy grips the key in the pocket of her slacks, lets it dig into the pale flesh of her palm. Blood pounds in her ears.

"Your point being?" 

Tom shrugs, still smirking. 

"Oh, I don't have one, really. It's just _rather_ interesting. Would you agree?" 

"I _assured_ you I didn't want any devious tricks. I only _wanted_ my friends' safety!" Patsy insists, disguising the slowly rising panic.

"Oh, of course. But just know this, _Patience-_ "

"It's Patsy."

"Just know this. You aren't the only one with leverage." He says, folding the paper again, tucking it into his breast pocket.

"It's not bloody leverage, is it, Tom?"

"Who are they more likely to listen to here? A newly promoted Chief Inspector or the dregs of the loony bin?" 

He collects his hat, turning to leave through the front door. Patsy watches him leave, holding out against the trembling of her hands. 

"Barbara, I can call it off with Christopher if you need me here." Trixie brushes her mascara on with experienced precision. Barbara shakes her head.

"You go. Enjoy yourself. For me?" 

"Are you sure?"

"I thought you liked Christopher?" Barbara asks, picking at her nails.

"I do, I just-" Trixie trails off, reaching for her lipstick. Ruby red, as standard.

"What?" 

"What if something happens?"

"Oh, Trixie-"

"I went out last night, and while I was off having a grand old time, you were- going through hell, Barbara. Absolute hell." 

"It isn't _your_ fault!" Barbara says, meeting Trixie's eyes in the mirror.

"Still."

"I want you to go out. He makes you happy." 

"Oh, Barbara. I truly don't deserve you, do I?" 

Barbara smiles, one of her classic little grins that makes Trixie's heart soar.

In a platonic way.

Completely and utterly.

Barbara is suddenly behind her, arms around her neck from behind, chin planted on her shoulder as they both look into the mirror.

Trixie swallows the lump in her throat.

"You look lovely, Trixie." Barbara says.

Trixie leans her head against Barbara's, letting a few moments pass, her chest tightening, aching. "Now go out and have a wonderful time. Because Christopher would entirely be missing out." 

  
  


Valerie drops Barbara off in the pub van en route to a resupply of pickling vinegar, the type they won't deliver to _The_ _Rose and Thorns._

Barbara knocks gently against the door, before trying the handle. It slips downwards in her grip with no effort, unusual for Patsy who usually hides behind a deadbolt and chain. She enters, calling out for Patsy as she does so.

The woman is in the lounge, pacing frantically, rhythmically, twisting her fingers around one another, her breaths skipping and struggling as she mutters to herself in blind panic.

"Patsy?" She's wary, standing in the doorway as Patsy paces.

"Tom knows." 

"What?"

"Tom knows." She repeats, mumbling, looking across to Barbara.

"What does he know, Patsy?" She approaches her, taking her gently by the shoulders. Patsy shrugs her off, eyes wide.

"About me. About them locking me away." The panic rises in Patsy's chest as she holds her hands over her face, turning her back to Barbara.

"Patsy, please." Barbara asks, near on pleading.

"No! He knows and he's going to use it against me." Patsy says hastily as she turns, rambling. "I've ruined it all, Babs. I'm sorry, I've ruined it all. I only wanted to help and I've made everything so much worse." 

Barbara dares to step forwards again, taking Patsy's shoulders again. The other woman doesn't shy away, eyes hitting the floor.

"This is my fault. I shouldn't have gotten you involved, Patsy. You aren't to blame, I promise." 

Patsy softens in Barbara's arms, letting herself be held. 

"I don't blame you. Please promise you won't blame yourself." 


End file.
